Bad Blood
by LadyExcalibur2010
Summary: Edward Cullen was a man who liked order. He arranged his life into neat little segments, exercising rigid control in all areas of his existence. Then one day, all of it was brought tumbling down by one simple question.
1. Chapter 1

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

**Author's Notes: I originally said that I expected this story to be about ten chapters long. I think now that estimate is a tad low. The characters have kind of gone off in their own direction and Edward is strangely reluctant to spill some beans. I can't hurry the poor man along. It would just be cruel. So... perhaps a few more chapters than ten. I will update at least once every two weeks at least, but probably once a week is likely. This little plot bunny wandered into my garden and I was helpless to resist. Having just finished a long story, I want to play with some smaller ideas.**

**BAD BLOOD**

"_**Love and fear. Everything the father of a family says must inspire one or the other." ~Joseph Joubert**_

_**~Bad Blood~**_

Edward Cullen was a man who liked order. He prized it in fact. He arranged his life into neat little segments, exercising rigid control in all areas of his existence. It was not that he wanted to control anyone else. No, the one he was most desperate to control was himself. His world was centered around that truth.

So his life was arranged into tidy boxes into which he placed his days and nights, his hours and minutes precisely planned and anticipated.

On Mondays he would arrive at the gym at precisely 6:15 in the morning. He would work out for forty-five minutes, after which he would shower and change into work clothes and head to work. Because he arrived a few minutes later than his usual 7:07 arrival, Janice would already be at her desk. They would exchange smiles and an overall impression of their weekends. After talking with her no less than two minutes and no more than three, he would head to his desk and turn on his computer.

On Tuesdays, he would have lunch at the diner that was two and a half blocks from the office, indulging in a hamburger in French fries, an extravagance for which he would have to run an extra two miles on Wednesday. He always ordered the same thing; he always sat in the same booth (the one that had a small rip in the seat precisely three inches from the edge). Midge was always his waitress and she always asked what a handsome guy like him was doing eating alone. Edward always gave her a playful and flirtatious smile in response. That the smile was fake mattered to neither of them. The niceties must be observed.

On Wednesdays, he would go to the gym in the morning, leaving his house quite early in order to complete his routine. He worked out for an hour and arrived at the office right on schedule – between 7:05 and 7:07 - having allowed for inconvenient traffic or inclement weather. In the evening, he would run five miles instead of the three miles he normally ran on Saturday. If weather permitted, he liked to run outside. It gave him time to think and appreciate the gifts of nature. If the weather was foul, he would run on the treadmill. He always found that slightly disconcerting somehow.

On Thursdays, he picked up his dry cleaning. He always left the house ten minutes later than usual so that he could sync his arrival at the dry cleaners to the time they opened. The woman who worked the counter was named Sharon. He always said hello and asked her how her grandchildren were doing. Sharon always commented on what a polite young man he was. He always blushed when she said that, cursing his fair skin.

Fridays would see him at a bar. There were half a dozen bars that he frequented on a rotating basis. His visits there had a precise and rigid schedule. After an hour or two there, he would set his sights on a woman. He would then do his best to charm her and persuade her to go to a hotel with him. It usually worked. The woman he chose was always there with friends, and he always made sure to introduce himself to those friends, giving them his name. "Hello, I'm Edward Cullen. Pleased to meet you." The words were always exactly the same. His smile was always charming. His actions were a precaution, a safety net that the women never realized they needed. Then he would take the woman to a hotel where he would check in using the same credit card. They would fuck – twice. Always twice. Not once. Not three times. Twice. He wasn't into anything kinky. He didn't need pain to orgasm, nor did he like to inflict it. If anything, his partners would have said he was a kind and considerate lover, if somewhat remote. He never slept there, but would tell the women that he had to get up early. He always left her with a lingering kiss but the impression that he would never use the phone numbers they invariably pressed upon him. Then he would go home and go to bed after showering for fifteen minutes. He did not like to lie, so he _would_ get up early and go about his routine.

Every Saturday morning, he would take another run, just three miles – never half a mile more or half mile less. He never deviated from his customary route – north past the Miller's house, then west up toward the orchard and back home again. Then he would go home, get showered and dressed, and spend the day cleaning his house. He was neat, preferring tidiness in his surroundings as he did in his dealings with the outside world. He was not so obsessed that he spent his Saturdays with a bottle of bleach and a toothbrush cleaning his kitchen floor, but he was organized and methodical. He brushed his hair with fifty strokes of his brush every morning and night. He spent exactly six minutes brushing his teeth and eight minutes washing and conditioning his hair. It took him five minutes to shave. In all things, there must be order. That was his mantra, the guiding principle of his life.

His aunt would call him every Saturday evening, somewhere between five and six. They would talk for half an hour. Every week she expressed her love and concern for him. Every week he placated her with empty words. She had done her best, after all. And he was doing the best he could as well. He told her that he loved her, because he did. She had been a boy's savior, and a man's lifeline. Then they would hang up and he would fight the urge to weep. Always, he would triumph over that need because tears represented weakness and an excess of emotion. Those things were not for him.

On Sunday, if football was in season, he would have some guys from work over to watch the game. If asked the men would have said they were good friends. If asked, Edward would have said they were acquaintances with whom he was friendly. While he liked sports, he never allowed himself much emotion when watching the games. Control. It was all about control. Too much emotion was both dangerous and unnecessary, so in all things he preferred moderation and control. If football was not in season, he might have a barbeque for some people from the office. No one would ever call him a loner, though in truth he was lonely.

For years, his life went on in this way. He wasn't happy, but neither was he unhappy. He was content and that was all he asked. He felt a sense of satisfaction in knowing what he had overcome. The beast that surely lived within him had been firmly leashed and that was all that mattered. If he was not particularly fulfilled, he was also not a danger to those around him, and that was enough.

He was comfortable in his chosen path, knowing what each day held, being able to predict the conversations he would have, the foods he would eat, where he would be at different times during the day. The routine was his healing balm and it helped him forget – for the most part.

Then the day came (it was a Thursday, and sometimes he would ponder that if it had been a Wednesday he might have missed meeting her altogether and she might have abandoned her quest) when his carefully ordered world was thrown into chaos.

The knock on the door was both unexpected and unwelcome. Edward Cullen did not like surprises, and nothing in his previous experiences had indicated that any surprise could be pleasant. So he was already scowling when he opened the door.

He was never sure what he expected when he opened the door, but what he found wasn't it.

She was petite, not dressed particularly well and probably around his age. Her eyes were large and dark and intelligent behind her glasses, which gave her the air of a librarian. Her brown hair was pulled back in to a ponytail and she had a pen stuck behind one ear. In her hand was a steno pad and dangling from her wrist was one of those little recorders that he had learned to despise long ago. She blinked at him for a moment, as if surprised that he was actually home.

If it had been Wednesday, he would have already safely made his escape.

A tiny line appeared between her brows. "Mr. Cullen?" she asked. Her voice was slightly husky, as if she had a cold perhaps. She licked her lips.

"Yes, I'm Mr. Cullen," he replied. His skin felt itchy now, too small for his body. It was Thursday and he had to leave for the dry-cleaners soon.

"_Edward_ Cullen?" she pressed.

"Yes," he answered with a frown, glancing at his watch. If this kept up too much longer he would be late. He could not abide tardiness.

A relieved smile broke out on her face and she breathed out a gusty sigh. The smile changed her face, he noticed. She was...well, she was pretty. Quite pretty in fact, in a girl-next-door kind of way, but it was not Friday and they were not at a bar and she had no friends to whom he could introduce himself. So he ignored her girl-next-door looks. "Oh thank goodness, I was afraid I'd gotten it wrong."

"May I help you?" He looked at his watch pointedly and she took the hint.

"Uh yeah, I mean, yes, I hope so." She seemed flustered. Since he was feeling the same way, he allowed himself a small twinge of satisfaction.

He quirked one eyebrow at her, urging her silently to come to the point already.

She began rummaging around in her bag, and then pulled free a piece of paper triumphantly. "Are you the same Edward Cullen who graduated from Jacksonville University?"

He frowned. "Yes." What could this possibly be leading up to? And why? If she didn't come to the point, he'd arrive late at the dry-cleaners and that possibility annoyed him.

Another smile from her, and this one was more uncertain. Her voice, when she spoke, trembled a bit. "Are you the Edward Cullen who was once known as Edward Masen II, son of the serial killer Edward Masen, Senior?"

He shut the door in her face and leaned against it, gasping for breath.

Control, Edward, he reminded himself. In all things, control. _You are not subject to whims of excess in anything._ He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It didn't matter. He would say nothing. Confirm nothing. He would ignore her. She would go away eventually. She had to.

After a long moment, he heard her footsteps leaving his porch and dared to peek out in a gap between the curtains of the window. As she drove away, he found his fist clenching and before he could stop it, he had punched a hole in the drywall next to the door.

He stared at the hole, abashed and ashamed. This was not control. This was not moderation. This was not temperance. This was...this was the first step onto a path of destruction. This was the first rattling of the bars of the cage that held the monster. He closed his eyes and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mom. I'll do better. I'll do better."

He felt something wet and warm on his cheek and wiped it away with a carefully controlled motion.

Edward Cullen did not cry.

Edward Cullen did not like surprises.

It was a Thursday and he was supposed to be at the dry cleaners already. He was late.


	2. Chapter 2

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

**Chapter 2**

"_**What was silent in the father speaks in the son, and often I found in the son the unveiled secret of the father." ~Friedrich Nietzsche**_

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

All day at work, Edward had been out of sorts. Even his co-workers had commented on it, which only made his agitation worse. If others noticed, then he had truly lost control. The woman who had broken the seal on his memories was in his thoughts all day long. His thoughts were not complimentary.

Who did she think she was?

What purpose could be served by destroying his life? And why would she want to do so? He didn't know her. She didn't know him. Her motives were a mystery. Edward Cullen didn't like mysteries anymore than he liked surprises.

The whole situation was unacceptable.

Even though it was only Thursday, he had a strange compulsion to call his aunt. That realization only served to disturb him further. Not only had the woman disrupted his usual morning routine, she had ruined his day and now threatened to upset his entire schedule. She had better hope that she did not encroach on his privacy again. Of course, Edward did not allow himself to feel anger toward the woman; it was more annoyance than anything else. Annoyance was a safe and bland emotion. Annoyance did not flare into rage, not if one kept a tight rein on it.

Edward Cullen kept a tight rein on everything.

So when he arrived home that night, the sight of her sitting on the porch steps might have driven a lesser man to anger, but he merely sighed in resignation. Clearly this woman had to be set straight in the most clear and concise and polite terms possible.

She stood up when she saw him approach her, her expression tentative and wary. Good.

"I just wanted to -"

He held up his hand. "My name is Edward Cullen," he reminded her softly. Control. Moderation. "My father is Carlisle Cullen, my mother is Esme Cullen. These facts are a matter of public record. That is all I have to say." All of that was true; he had a birth certificate to prove it. It had been issued when he was fourteen, when he had died and been reborn.

He brushed past her, intent on unlocking his front door and getting inside the safe haven of his home. _A place for everything and everything in its place. The narrow road is the righteous road. I shall fear no evil. _He repeated his soothing litanies to himself over and over again in his head as he tried to get the lock open.

For once, his key did not turn smoothly. It was _her_ fault. His hands were shaking. That was her fault too. He turned to glare at her. "Why don't you just go away?" he asked in annoyance.

She blinked at him and then smiled slowly. "I don't have any place else to be, and honestly, your story fascinates me. I need to know what..." Her shoulders slumped and her words trailed off.

He huffed and turned away from her, jiggling the key in the lock. If that kept up, he would be moved to cursing, and that betrayed an excess of emotion that would not do. At last, he felt the lock release and heaved a sigh of relief. As he slipped inside the door he turned and gave her a smug smile. "Then I feel very sorry for you indeed."

He closed the door, engaging the lock with a satisfied snick of sound.

It took ten minutes for her steps to move off the porch. He found that interval of time unacceptable and pondered calling the police. In the end, he decided against it. Not only would it complicate matters further and disrupt his life even more, uncomfortable questions might be asked. Edward Cullen didn't like awkward questions any more than he liked being tardy, or surprises, or nosy, exasperating women on his doorstep.

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

On his way home from work Thursday evening, Edward had had to make a stop at the hardware store. This was not his usual Thursday night errand (that was a trip to the video store where he would rent one of the new releases whether he thought he'd like it or not). That deviation bothered him, nagged at his sense of well being.

He purchased the supplies to fix the hole that he'd made in the drywall by the door. What had been broken must be restored. After the annoying woman left him in peace, Edward got to work. As he made the repair, he admonished himself. "This is what happens when you lose control. First it's a wall..." He was never able to say the words that came next out loud. But he knew what they were.

Some might have said it was just a wall, but Edward knew for him there was no such thing. Nothing was "just" anything. Every action had a consequence, every consequence had a price. Every debt must be paid.

The beast was tethered but not vanquished. The boy who had once shivered, covered in blood and tears and the sweaty stench of fear, had become a man. In that man were the seeds of evil. Those seeds of evil could not be nourished or encouraged in any way. They must not be given opportunity or desire. Control. That was the key. Control in all things.

Control and routine led to serenity, serenity led to goodness. Goodness led to salvation.

That _woman_ had stolen his hard won serenity. He would not allow that to happen again. The repair was finished, but the blank, unpainted space in the wall was a reminder, a penance. A price.

_This is what happens when you lose control_.

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

Edward woke up early. He blinked for a moment, reaching to turn off the alarm. But, strangely, it was not the alarm which had woken him. He frowned at the clock by his bed, precisely arranged to rest parallel with the bed. It was in its place, but something was wrong.

He never woke up before his alarm. He never hit the snooze button. Having allotted himself the proper eight hours for sleep, there was no need to do so. He fell asleep within eight minutes of putting his head on the pillow and woke up at the first buzz from the alarm. Always. Until today.

It was that woman's fault.

Until she had shown up on his doorstep, he had never woken up before his alarm. Yes, at the beginning, when he was a boy and the horror was fresh, there had been nightmares. Horrific nightmares, if the look on his aunt's and uncle's faces were any indication. He had never remembered them simply because he had chosen not to – they were unimportant.

But now...

Now, his life was slowly slipping out of control. Today it was waking up four minutes early. Some might say that wasn't such a deviation from routine. Some might even say it meant nothing at all. Edward, however, knew the truth. Control must be maintained in all areas, even sleep.

Sleep was a vulnerable time for most people. Sleep was when demons tried to slip in past your guard and take up residence. Sleep was when you were weak if you allowed yourself to be.

Edward Cullen was not weak.

He stubbornly stayed in bed until his alarm went off, giving one short buzz before he hit the button.

The day was already off to an abominable start.

His coffee tasted off. He had prepared it as usual, so it should have tasted exactly as it did every other morning. But something about it annoyed him and set his taste buds to tingling unpleasantly. In disgust, he poured half of it down the sink. His toaster burned his toast. His grapefruit was too sour and carried an edge of bitterness. When he put on his left sock, he noticed there was a hole near his big toe. He threw it toward the waste basket. And missed.

Suddenly, he was reminded of a children's story he had seen in the book store one day. "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day." Edward had a feeling that he and this Alexander might commiserate with each other.

Idly, he wondered if Alexander had had a similar experience with a nosy woman who asked questions about topics that were none of her business.

When he opened his door, he looked both right and left. This was not part of his usual routine and the necessity of doing so annoyed him. Grateful that he spotted no inquisitive brown eyes, he gave a sigh of relief and got into his car. It wouldn't start.

Of course.

It was indeed a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

And it was all her fault.

_**~Bad Blood~**_

That night, he went to the bar that was next on his rotation. His body knew that it was Friday and it wanted to find release. He ordered a beer, nothing too strong that might lower his inhibitions. He would drink two beers tonight, as he did every other Friday night. Then he would limit himself to club sodas. There was no need to get drunk. He had no desire to do so. Getting drunk was unwise.

He looked over the available women, glad that he had gotten his car repaired in time to keep his routine as sacred as possible.

Later, he would realize that he should have expected it. It was inevitable the way the day had gone. A woman came to stand beside him. She wasn't dressed as provocatively as some of the women, so he hadn't paid her any attention. His sights were set on women who were likely to be open to a casual fuck. They tended to adorn themselves in the plumage that would get them the attention they desired. His eyes had passed right over her.

So when she spoke, it had surprised him. Edward Cullen still did not appreciate surprises.

"Hello, Mr. Cullen," she said, just loud enough for him to hear.

He stifled the curse that came to his lips and took a sip of his beer instead. When he had regained control of his emotions (control at all times in all things), he turned toward her. "Are you following me?"

She rolled her eyes and took a sip of her drink. He could smell the alcohol from where he stood and wondered if she had already made arrangements to get herself back safely, if she had a hotel room around here. She should know better than to let herself get intoxicated, especially if she was here by herself.

She annoyed him.

"Do you come here often, Mr. Cullen?" she asked.

He ignored her. He was further annoyed when she gave a little chuckle and remained at his side. He contemplated moving away from her but two things kept him where he was. One, this was his usual spot and he wasn't about to give it up simply because _she _had shown up. Two, giving into his annoyance was just another way of losing control.

Edward Cullen did not lose control.

"Go away," he instructed softly. Then he closed his eyes. He should have simply ignored her.

"Sorry," she said, not sounding sorry at all in his opinion. "But I like it here."

His body craved release and he was not going to leave until he found a likely prospect. Finally, he turned to her. "Why are you here? Why are you harassing me?"

She rolled her eyes at him and he felt the strangest urge to stamp his feet like a little boy. "I'm hardly harassing you," she said. "It's a public place. I'm here. You're here. That's all."

He turned away from her his jaw clenching tightly until he realized it and consciously relaxed it. The woman was insufferable.

"You seem to know a lot about me," he said tightly. "Yet I know nothing about you, miss. Not even your name – and that hardly seems fair, does it?"

She glanced up at him through thick lashes. "I suppose knowing my name would only be fair." But then she said nothing more and he once again had to restrain his emotions. This time he wanted to shake her. In less than 48 hours, this woman was making quick work of crumbling all of the carefully constructed walls in his life and he didn't like it – one bit.

"Well?" he finally ground out.

"Oh, you mean you want me to talk to you now?" Then she frowned. "But I thought you wanted me to stop harassing you?" Only the gleam in her eyes gave her game away; her tone was completely innocent.

"For the love of all that's holy," he muttered, running his fingers through his hair. This would not do. Such gestures were the hallmark of the weak.

She nudged him and he leaned away from her. She ignored his move and held out her hand. "I'm Isabella Swan, but my friends call me Bella."

"Well, Miss Swan, it's not a pleasure to meet you." He felt quite proud of himself for delivering that zinger in a completely polite voice, his expression bland and unconcerned. However, he childishly ignored her hand.

Isabella made a face at him, as if calling him a poor sport. He expected her to move away then, or perhaps annoy him with more questions. Instead, she seemed perfectly content to stand silently at his side. It made it very difficult to scope out prospects for the evening's entertainment. He began to feel a hum of tension run through him and he found his fingers tapping out an agitated rhythm on the side of his leg. He stopped the motion the moment he became aware of it.

A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day by any standard.

"Are you a reporter?" he shot the question at her during a lull in the music.

She didn't look his way, just shook her head. Then she began shaking her hips when the music started up again. She tugged at his hand, urging him toward the dance floor.

Edward Cullen did not dance.

He remained stubbornly where he was and she finally gave him an exasperated look and moved to the dance floor by herself. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the music, her body swaying in time with the heavy pulses of sound, her hair moving back and forth along her back like a metronome. Edward rather liked the predictability of the motion so he kept his eyes locked on her. Men moved closer and orbited her, but her eyes remained closed and she seemed unaware of them.

Then the song ended and she came back to stand beside him and he realized, rather belatedly, that he had missed his chance to make his escape. What had come over him?

"You missed a good song," she said. Then she ordered another drink and he frowned. He calculated the amount of alcohol he had seen her consume and estimated her body weight. Unwise. Imprudent. Reckless. These words seemed to describe Isabella Swan. Those were qualities he did not appreciate in anyone.

"I didn't miss it," he mumbled. "I could hear it. I'd have to be _deaf_ not to hear it."

She laughed, and her hair swung as she turned to accept her drink from the barkeep. Her hair brushed his arm. He was grateful that he was wearing a long sleeved shirt, as was his custom. He did not want to feel the softness of her hair on his flesh.

Once more, she fell into what seemed a comfortable silence for her, an exercise in frustration for him.

"So...if you're not a reporter, then you must be a writer. Am I correct? Do you think you're going to write the next true crime book that will set the publishing world on fire?" He let his disdain show through each word.

Isabella shook her head. "No, nothing like that," she said quietly.

"Then why are you ruining my life?" The words came out with rather more heat than he intended and Edward took a deep breath. Control in all things.

Her expression was both sad and shocked when she looked at him. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean...I should have...Of course...you're right..." She shook her head and picked up her purse. "I'm sorry," she said again. "I won't bother you again."

He watched her leave.

Everything sane and rational inside of him said good riddance. He knew he should resume looking for a woman, get a release for the tension that built up in him over the week. It was a safe release, to lose himself in the warmth of a woman's body for a brief period of time.

Instead, Edward Cullen did something extraordinary. For the first time since he was fourteen years old, he acted on impulse. With a muttered curse, he put aside his routine and chased after her.

His annoyance increased. It was Friday and he was supposed to be getting laid. Twice. Instead, he was chasing after the most infuriating, exasperating, and annoying woman in the world.

When would this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day ever come to an end?


	3. Chapter 3

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

_**Author's Note: Thank you all SO much for reading this weird little story. It was inspired by a book, but I won't mention that book until the next chapter, after we've explored Edward's deal a little bit, which is also in the next chapter, LOL!**_

**Chapter 3**

**Sorrow you can hold, however desolating, if nobody speaks to you. If they speak, you break down. ~Bede Jarrett**

He saw her heading east and quickly ran after her. Most men, those who were not in control of their emotions and reactions, might have grabbed at her arm and whirled her around to yell at her. Edward Cullen was not most men. Instead, he slipped around her, quite nimble in his sudden desperation, stood in front of her and turned to face her. He held out his hands in case she started to fall, startled at seeing him there.

She came to an abrupt halt but was steady on her feet so he lowered his hands.

"Miss Swan," he began in his most soothing voice. It was the voice he might have used if he came upon an injured dog. Or a rabid raccoon. He wasn't quite sure which one this Isabella Swan was yet. In any case, she was to be approached with caution. Luckily, cautious was one of the things that Edward did best. It was second nature to him, a disguise that had become reality.

She looked up at him and her cheeks were damp. That, he admitted, surprised him. His stance on surprises was well known. He heaved a sigh of exasperation. "Why are _you_ crying? Surely _I'm_ the injured party here?" But even he heard the note of petulance in his voice and that annoyed him. Further. More. Again.

Isabella just shook her head and tried to move around him. He stepped into her path each time she did so. Finally, she stopped, huffed loudly, and crossed her arms over her chest. Edward felt a small twinge of smug satisfaction at having annoyed _her_ for a change. It was petty, he admitted, but still true. Sometimes a man had to take his satisfaction where he could.

"Look, I said I'm sorry," she said in a rush. "I won't bother you again."

"Well, I suppose the day is salvaged after all," he observed with relief. While politeness might demand a more cordial response, he had been pushed to his limits, and surely she had to realize that all of this was _her_ fault?

"I shouldn't have..." She shook her head. "I just thought that maybe you'd -" Then, without another word, Isabella turned and slowly walked the other way. He watched her leaving for a long moment, unsure why he still felt...dissatisfied and uneasy. She had promised not to annoy him or disrupt his life. There was no reason in the world for him to chase after her, none at all. In fact, he should have been heading back into the bar to see if he could somehow, save the rest of the evening and get laid. Twice.

Instead, he was stomping after her, annoyed more at himself now than at the infuriating Isabella Swan and that was saying something. Once more, he stepped in front of her, cutting her path of escape. He didn't touch her. He used the advantage of his superior height to loom over her, though in truth he wasn't much the looming type. It felt uncomfortable and fake.

"If you're not a reporter, and you're not a writer, maybe you could tell me what the hell you're doing here," he snapped. He felt a headache forming in the back of his skull. Soon it would radiate across his head and gather like a storm in his forehead. He repressed the urge to rub the impending ache away. It was just discomfort and something he could tolerate.

"I live here," she said, only adding to the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day with that little tidbit of information.

"You _live_ here?" Surely he had heard her wrong. Maybe he had a brain tumor. One could only hope.

But if it was true, and he had heard her correctly... He wondered if it would reflect a lack of control to simply move to another city, another state perhaps. Then again, he thought he might enjoy Europe. He could rebuild his safe, comfortable life elsewhere.

It wasn't Miss Swan's presence so much as the danger her knowledge represented. If she had figured it out, how long would it take others to do so? How long before she shouted his shame to the world? How long before the whispers and sidelong glances started? How long before the prank calls began? How long would it take for the obscene words to be spray painted on his home, alerting the world to his sins, that poison that surged in his veins? "You said you live _here_?" Maybe he had brain damage. Perhaps he had hit his head and didn't remember hitting his head. Maybe he had imagined her response. One could only hope.

She gave a defensive little shrug and looked at something beyond his shoulder. "I just moved here a few weeks ago and..." She sighed. "It's taken me all that time to approach you." Isabella rubbed at her face. "And then I completely blew it. I was so afraid of blurting out one thing that I blurted out something even worse and..."

"Why in God's name would you wish to do so – approach me that is?" That was the question, wasn't it? What was her agenda? If she had nothing to gain from disrupting his tidy little existence then why did she insist on doing so?

"You wouldn't understand," she muttered.

"You're right, I probably won't, but I'd still like an explanation. I think I'm entitled to one."

She hesitated a moment. "Well, I _am_ a writer," she said. Her confession was given in the same manner that a child might admit to lying, with a great deal of shame and the sincere hope that no punishment would be forthcoming.

"I knew it." His voice was flat, his expression strained. "Well then, have a pleasant evening Miss Swan. We have nothing left to say to each other."

He turned and began walking away, but this time Miss Swan chased_ him_. She _did_ grab his arm and turn him around, taking advantage of his shock at her daring. "I'm a writer, but I'm not interested in writing a story about what Masen did. I'm a writer. That's how I earn my living, but that's got nothing to do with why I wanted to talk to you." She shuddered. "No, it's nothing like that." She let go of his arm at his pointed look. She let her arms drop to her side. "Actually, I write children's books."

Once more, Miss Swan had surprised him. He was rather tired of surprises. They were exhausting. This whole situation was exhausting. But most of all, Isabella _Swan_ was exhausting.

"_Children's_ books? I hardly think the crimes of a serial killer are suitable fodder for a children's book." There was something odd in saying the words "serial killer." How long had it been since that combination of words had passed his lips? Edward could not decide if it was freeing somehow, or merely added another lock to his prison.

"I'm not writing about any of...that," she said quietly and she shivered. Edward wasn't quite sure it was only the cool night air that caused it. "I just..." She sighed and wrapped her arms around her own body, squeezing hard. "I wanted...I needed to know..."

Something in her voice, her posture, gave him pause. She was as broken in her way as he was in his. She just hid it so much better. Whereas he had found solace in control and regiment, she had found comfort in actually trying to live a normal, fulfilled life.

When he spoke, he hated the note of gentleness in his voice. "Why? Just let it go. It's all ancient history. None of it matters anymore." Of course it mattered, but only to him. He would spend the rest of his life trying to expiate his father's sins. This woman infuriated and exasperated him, but he was still human enough to recognize pain when he saw it.

"It matters to me," she insisted quietly. Isabella Swan swallowed hard and Edward looked over shoulder, giving one last longing glance toward the bar. It would have been so nice to have that release tonight. But it seemed that it was not to be, so he put aside his frustration, carefully controlled his need, and turned to walk home. He was done with Miss Swan. He was done with letting her rattle his self-control.

He had to get away from her. Everything about her screamed danger and impulse.

He heard her footsteps behind him, but he ignored them. He was tired of dealing with Miss Swan and her explosive questions. He was tired of feeling out of sorts and ill-at-ease and all of the other uncomfortable things that Miss Swan brought with her. He wanted his soothing routine, the comfort of his belongings (a place for everything and everything in its place). He wanted the solace of order and predictability.

With Miss Swan around, all of those things seemed to be in short supply and he was so very tired. "Mr. Cullen?" she asked as she fell into step beside him.

He didn't halt; he didn't even slow down. He did not give her the courtesy of even a sidelong glance. "Yes?" he snapped out and then took a deep breath, releasing his tension. Breathe in; breathe out, just like Dr. Harvey said. Even after all these years, he could still hear the soothing voice of Dr. Harvey in his head.

"Listen, I don't blame you for being angry at me. _I'm_ angry at me," she said with an obvious air of frustration. "So please...let me buy you a cup of coffee. I'd like to try and explain. If you'd let me. You don't have to speak to me again, but please, let me explain."

He stood there on the street, his body still hungry for the release it knew should be happening. His mind was still unsettled and his whole body twitched and felt as if it belonged to someone else. The last thing in the world that he wanted was to share a cup of coffee with this woman. But he made the mistake of looking into her eyes. It was there again, that raw agony that called out to him. Something deep inside of him shifted in response. Edward Cullen did not like surprises, but it seemed as if he was intent on pursuing them that night. He gave a jerky nod of his head, in spite of all his good intentions to make his escape, in spite of his determination to put this woman behind him, both literally and figuratively.

Her smile was quick and genuine. "Good, that's...good. Thank you." She looked up and down the street. "Uh...there's a little diner down that way. If that's okay?"

Edward knew the diner. Their food was acceptable, their coffee actually quite good, and their service was friendly and prompt, so he nodded again. He turned and began walking toward the diner, letting Miss Swan fall into step or not as it pleased her. A moment later she was at her side, her arms wrapped around her body. He wondered why women insisted on going out on cool nights with inadequate protection against the elements. He wished that he had worn a jacket so that he might loan it to her. Perhaps she would be so grateful that she would leave him alone forever, he mused. Then he smiled wryly to himself. Not likely, he admitted. Miss Swan did not seem the type to give up easily.

When they got to the diner, he opened the door for her. She seemed surprised and he wondered if it was because society was, as a rule, so generally ill-mannered now or because she knew what he was. He was the son of a monster. But even he could be dressed up, taught a few manners, and released into an unsuspecting society.

They ordered their coffee and Edward knew that his schedule was going to be thrown off further by ingesting caffeine so late at night. He sighed and tried to push that thought away. He could have ordered tea, but the thought of a good cup of coffee was simply too tempting. They were silent while they waited for their beverages to arrive, but it wasn't a particularly uncomfortable silence. That surprised Edward, but he wasn't sure if it was an unpleasant surprise or not, which further surprised him.

Isabella took a sip of her coffee when it arrived and gave a little groan of appreciation. It was an uncomfortable reminder to Edward of what he _should_ have been doing right at that moment. He willed his body into submission and remained still and quiet in the booth.

"It's a funny thing about families," Bella said out of the blue. "My dad, well, he was a cop." She shook her head. "I think he kind of wanted me to follow in his footsteps, you know. He thought that maybe it would be for me, a way to right wrongs. Things like that." She shrugged and Edward just sat there, more confused than ever. "But I always knew I'd do something else. My dad saw so much of the ugliness in this world; that's what his job was, after all. He got a front row seat to all of the shit that humans do to each other, on purpose or just by sheer stupidity and he tried to make it right by making sure the guilty parties get what's coming to them. It's an honorable job and he was good at it. But I knew I couldn't live by surrounding myself with the ugliness in this world. I wanted to concentrate on the beauty and innocence that's still out there, you know? The innocence that still exists...somewhere anyway. Then I figured out I had a knack for writing children's stories and I got lucky. I'm not rich, by any means, but I make a living."

Edward nodded when she spoke of the beauty and innocence , though in fact he did _not_ know. If he had ever been innocent, that had been ripped away on a warm spring night. When he emerged from the house where he had grown up, he had been a different person.

He thought about her words and realized something. "What about your mother?" The question was out of his mouth before he could retract it. He had opened a dangerous door. She knew who he was; she knew the bare facts of what had happened. What if she turned the question around on him?

Her eyes skittered up to meet his and then danced away and he saw in them the same reluctance he knew must be in his own. "My mom just wanted me to be happy," she finally said. "Of course, it's hard to discuss career choices with an eleven year old. I was pretty sure that I wanted to be a princess at that age." Her smile flickered sadly and then was gone. "Or maybe ride horses for a living, kind of like a cowboy but I didn't want to live outside. Even then, I couldn't stand bugs."

It seemed to him that Miss Swan was avoiding the question, circling around it. "What happened to your mother, Isabella?" Edward pressed. Uncomfortable and risky or not, he had to know. That was not a welcomed realization.

Her eyes met his squarely and she heaved a sigh. "See, that's actually why I was such a bitch and intruded on your life, Edward Cullen."

Some part of him knew, though he wasn't sure how it was possible. He knew every name; they had haunted his sleep since he was fourteen years old. Every name, every life, every horrific act. They both swallowed hard.

"Her name was Renee Dwyer," Isabella answered as if she saw into the darkest recesses of his heart and knew exactly how his guilt and shame wracked him, as if she knew that the names of the dead haunted him. The names of the women his father had killed. Somehow, she knew that he would never forget.

His head hung and he felt an immense sadness well up within him. Of course. It was horribly perfect in its logic. There was no escape for him, no matter how hard he tried to distance himself from those first fourteen years of his life, they had made him what he was. And the debt could never be paid.

"She was...the first," Edward said. How often had he whispered their names in the dark? Renee, Marnie, Michelle, Deanna, Claire, Phoebe, Therese, Eve, and... He stopped.

"She was the first," Isabella agreed softly.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. This was why he lived as he did. The shattered look in this woman's eyes, the immense burden of guilt weighing on him.

Isabella surprised him by placing her hand over his. "Edward, why are _you_ sorry?" He looked up, stunned. Her smile held some sort of strange grace that he was – shockingly – hungry to accept. "I don't blame _you_, that's not why I bothered you."

Edward Cullen had become a man accustomed to living a lie, and he was able to tell one in others. This woman was not lying. She did not put the blame for her mother's death on his shoulders.

"I thought that maybe you'd understand some of what I still feel. And I guess I just wanted to know...why?" It became a question at the end, as if she was not sure what she sought or why. Their eyes met. "I wanted to know why he killed my mother. Why her? What was it that drew him to her? Did something about her specifically trigger what he became? Was it... I thought..." She shook her head. "I thought that you might know because you...you were the one who recognized what he was. You stopped him, Edward. And who knows how many women you saved."

Oh yes, he had saved lives of that there was no doubt. His father would never have stopped. But he had not saved the one life he had wanted to save. He had been too stupid, too scared...too late.

He didn't realize that he had said the words out loud, until Miss Swan's hand settled over his own. "You were just a kid, Edward. What you did..." She sighed and squeezed his hand before removing hers. "It still inspires and amazes me. And it gives me hope, lets me think that maybe there really is more good out there than bad."

He looked up, though his shame weighed as heavy as a millstone around his neck. Her eyes shone with sincerity and for the first time in sixteen years, Edward felt the cold block of ice around his heart crack just a little.

"Thank you, Edward, for saving all of those women who will never have any idea what you did for them; they'll never know that you saved them and their families," Isabella whispered. "What you did...it gave me faith all these years; it's helped me to survive. Thank you for saving me, too."


	4. Chapter 4

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

**Chapter 4**

"_**Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it." ~ Mark Twain**_

Isabella's gentle words of absolution so stunned Edward Cullen that he found himself doing what he usually did when circumstances overwhelmed him. He ignored the words that had rocked the foundation of his existence. He gave one jerky nod of his head and said no more on the subject.

He thought that Isabella's lips quirked in amusement, but by the time he had glanced up, her expression was as serene as ever. Still...he wondered.

They didn't linger over their coffee. Edward was astonished to hear himself accept an invitation to dine at her house the following night. He was even more astonished to hear himself say that he would talk to her about the strange and horrific things they had in common, things that had changed them both so profoundly, but only as much as he was able.

Isabella nodded with understanding and squeezed his hand again. Edward found that simple, human touch quite...pleasant. Unexpectedly so.

"I can't be there before six thirty or so, maybe a little later," he warned her. His aunt would call him and he would need a few minutes to regain his composure.

Isabella smiled. "Let's make it seven thirty then, just to be safe?"

Her words made the smile fall from his face. "Uh...will anyone else be there?"

She misunderstood his question. "Of course not, I wouldn't..." Isabella looked down at her feet. "_If_ we...talk...I..." A shake of her head. "No, just us."

That was not reassuring to Edward Cullen. Though he would not be able to abide an audience, someone had to know he was there with her. He liked witnesses, people who knew he was alone with a woman. It was just another way to leash the monster inside of him. He tried to smile at her, but the gesture was beyond him. "Just...tell someone, will you?"

Her dark eyes bored into him for what seemed an eternity, as if she was ripping away the masks he had worn for so long that they felt more like him than _he_ did. "No, I don't really have anyone I want to tell." She shrugged. "You can feel free to tell someone if you like, if you're afraid of being alone with me."

He looked at her in astonishment, almost missing the teasing glint in her eyes. She laughed in delight. "I'm sorry, but you're just so easy to tease." She smirked at him. "I really should feel guilty, because it's sort of like teasing an adorable puppy, but I find I just can't help myself."

Nodding stiffly, Edward held open the diner door for her and led her out into the night, her laughter filling the cool breeze with a happy, unexpected sound.

_**~Bad Blood~**_

Saturday found him out of sorts again, though it did not seem to be a repeat of the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. He woke with his alarm, as usual. His coffee was as flavorful as always. His toast did not burn and his grapefruit was tasty. His sock did not have a hole in it. All in all, it was shaping up to be a better day. Still, something was off and he could not quite identify what it was, which only served to annoy him further.

His run was satisfactory since the weather cooperated and he felt strong as he ran, enjoying the play of his muscles, the sound of his feet hitting the ground, the slight burn in his lungs as he increased his pace.

He arrived home and showered, and then he cleaned his house. It didn't take much. He lived alone, he had no pets, and he was a rather tidy individual. Sometimes he wished that it would take him longer because now he had hours to fill until it was time for his aunt's call. Saturdays were an odd day for him usually. His body was supposed to be sated from his releases of the previous night, but his weekends were sometimes difficult to fill. On this day, he could not savor the feeling of physical satisfaction from a casual encounter. Nor did he have the distraction of deciding what to prepare for dinner either, since he was dining at Isabella's house that night.

At some point, Edward found himself wandering around his house, looking for something to do. Later on, it would seem like fate...destiny, perhaps. In any case, his watchband broke and his watch fell from his wrist while he was pacing around his bedroom. He dropped to his knees to retrieve it and the bedspread was pulled up _just_ enough to see that box. If the spread had been hanging just an inch lower, he would have been able to forget it.

But no, it was right there, in plain view.

For the first time since he had moved into the house, he actually picked it up. When he dusted under the bed, he used the dust mop to move the box, first right then left. Today, however, he pulled it free of its dark prison and sat on his bed with the thing in his lap for eleven and a half minutes (he had had enough presence of mind to grab his watch).

Unable to believe his own actions, he lifted the lid after eleven minutes and thirty-eight seconds. His breath caught in his throat.

His mother's picture – right on top, just where he'd placed it all those years ago. Had it been his way of punishing himself or a way to try and find comfort? Perhaps, in the end, it was both.

His hand was shaking as he lifted up the image, somewhat faded with time. But his memory was faithful and he could recreate every lovely detail of her face. She had loved him so much, and protected him until that protection was beyond her control.

Renee, Marnie, Michelle, Deanna, Claire, Phoebe, Therese, Eve, and...Elizabeth.

Their names rang out in his head with solemnity of a cathedral bell calling the faithful to worship.

Isabella's mother had been his father's first victim. His own mother had been his last. They were the Alpha and Omega of Edward Masen's madness.

Isabella obviously knew that his father had slaughtered his mother, it was part of what made the case such a sensation, but she had not asked about it. She had realized that even though he might be able to discuss his father in some way, his mother's memory was too sacred and precious. Who better to understand that than someone like Isabella?

For the first time in his life, he might have found someone who could actually have some small understanding of what he felt. Not as the son of the monster, but as the son of the woman that monster had killed. It was just Edward's bad luck that the monster was also his father.

He put the picture back in the box without looking at anything else. Not now, not when he must face talking to his aunt and then later making polite conversation with Miss Swan. Strangely, the idea of sitting down and talking with Isabella Swan did not seem so very distasteful anymore.

The box was soon safely tucked under the bed and Edward watched his clock tick down the minutes.

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

Her home was a modest little bungalow painted a cheerful yellow with blinding white shutters. Gaudy wildflowers in window boxes wafted in the night breeze. Their season would soon be over, he thought. He had just walked up and rapped once on the door when it flew open and he saw Bella standing there with margarita glass in her hand and Jimmy Buffett wafting out into the night air.

"Well, hello, Mr. Cullen," she said.

He stared at her suspiciously. "Are you drunk?"

She rolled her eyes and pulled him inside. "Absolutely not," she assured him. "This is only my first. I..." The amused expression fled from her face and she shrugged. "I just needed a bit of liquid courage I suppose." As always, she disarmed him with flashes of utter honesty, as if giving him a glimpse of her soul.

Edward found that a smile had somehow settled on his lips without his permission. "Ah," he murmured. "I see."

"Do you?" she asked with a challenge in her voice. "Come on it. Sit down. Take a load off. I'm making fajitas and you'll like them, so no whining."

Edward shook his head and wondered if he should take his shoes off. Bella's feet were bare, but there had been no shoes lined up in the foyer. Bella solved the problem for him by shoving him toward the couch. "Sit, Cullen."

He sat.

He heard her rummaging around in the kitchen and blushed a bit when "Let's Get Drunk and Screw" started playing. Isabella Swan was a woman of unexpected tastes, he was discovering. Strangely, he found himself almost looking forward to his next discovery, though they ventured dangerously close to the territory of surprises.

A few moments later, she appeared in the arch between the kitchen and living room. "Come into the kitchen," she said. "I don't have a formal dining room so you're just going to have to slum it."

Edward obeyed and was soon seated at little white table that had flowers painted up each leg. The back of his white chair had gotten similar treatment. The whole kitchen was a profusion of mouth-watering smells, bright colors, and unfamiliar warmth that somehow tugged at a long-buried memory in Edward's mind.

He cleared his throat before awkwardly wrapping a fajita around the meat and vegetables. "First, I-"

Isabella held up her hand and shook her head. "No talking. Eating first. I get really cranky when I'm hungry. You don't want to see that, believe me." Then she grinned at him and took a huge bite of her first fajita. He mentally reviewed the Heimlich maneuver in his mind, certain that she would have need of it momentarily. She chewed and motioned him to eat with one hand. So far, there seemed to be no need for intervention.

Edward sighed knowing that there would be no moving her on the issue. Generally speaking, Edward Cullen wasn't a big fan of Mexican food. It was messy and tended to be spicy. But he dutifully took a small nibble. His expression must have given him away because she giggled. "God, don't tell me that you've never had a fajita before?"

He swallowed the bite and shrugged. "Apparently what I've been eating has merely been passed off as a fajita, but this...?" He held it up. "_This_ is a fajita." And his next bite was as big as Isabella's.

She even talked him into drinking another beer.

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

Though Isabella had protested, Edward insisted on helping her clean up the kitchen. When she had suggested that she could just attend to it after he left, he sighed. "That will just make cleaning up more difficult," he observed.

Isabella had teased him, but they had ended up side-by-side, washing and rinsing and putting away dishes. There had been an ease to their combined efforts that had surprised him. At the end, the kitchen was restored to bright, fresh order and Edward turned out the light with a slight smile of satisfaction.

Then they were on the couch and Jimmy had given way to another of the same name, Jimi Hendrix. Isabella's taste in music continued to elude him, but he realized that it fit her in some inexplicable way. She was, in many ways, still very much a mystery, one that Edward wasn't sure any mere mortal could solve.

He sat down on the couch as Isabella's insistence and then she moved to bookshelf, where she plucked out a volume and opened the pages. From inside, she retrieved a photograph. Edward recognized her immediately, of course. He had memorized all of their faces.

"My Mom," Isabella said quietly. Like him, she kept a special photograph of her mother in a secret place. However, she had shown no hesitation in touching that image and her hand didn't shake when she extended it toward him. He envied her that certainty.

He let his fingers run over the image, glancing at Isabella to make sure she had no objections. Images of the dead could be sacred to those left behind. Who knew that better than he did? The expression on her face, however, was encouraging. "You look like her," he finally said. "Not the eyes, but the shape of your face. You have her mouth."

Isabella smiled and nodded. "Yes, I think so too. Everyone always told me how much I looked like Charlie – that's my father – but I've always thought I looked a lot like her too."

She tilted her head and studied him. "You don't look at all like your father," she said carefully.

He wanted to breathe a sigh of relief at how she'd phrased it. It was true; he bore a striking resemblance to his mother. He carried some of the lines of his father's face, but his coloring was his mother's. That vivid inheritance served to disguise and camouflage what little resembled the monster. His father had dark brown hair and blue eyes, his mother had had auburn hair and the same green eyes that stared back at Edward every morning when he shaved.

There were mornings he could barely stand to look.

"I thought..." Isabella hesitated. "I thought maybe I could ask you some questions." His eyes flew to hers, his expression wary. She put her hand on his arm. "Anything you don't want to answer, just tell me so. You can ask me anything too, but I reserve the right to not answer too. If that's okay with you?"

He nodded. She was making this easier than he expected. Or deserved.

She smiled brightly at his agreement. "Okay..." She paused. "Well, first, do you have any questions for me?"

Only a million, he thought. But he knew he'd never work up the nerve to ask even a small fraction of them. "How did you...how did you find me?"

Isabella leaned back against her end of the couch and drew an afghan over her as she crossed her legs. "A few years ago, there was one of those candlelight vigils. You know what I'm talking about?"

Edward nodded.

"Well, this one was being held for all murder victims in the city," she explained and kindly ignored Edward's flinch. "You bring a picture of your loved one, and hold a candle and it's supposed to make you feel better or something." She shrugged. "I don't know. It was the first and last one I went to, but..."

"Go on," he urged quietly.

"I had a picture of my mother with me, but something...something made me grab another picture from the clippings my father kept." Her eyes flashed up to his and she seemed almost embarrassed. "The second picture I took was...it was your mother."

Edward felt the air leave his lungs. He was stunned into silence. As far as he knew, Isabella was the first one to really think of his mother as a victim too. She must have seen it in his eyes with that uncanny perception of hers because she reached out to him again.

"You're wrong, you know," she said.

"Wrong?"

"Most people know that she was as much as victim as any of the others," Isabella explained. Then she continued briskly. "Anyway, there was someone else there. Marnie's mother?"

Edward nodded. Marnie O'Doyle. Seventeen years old, brown hair, blue eyes, she had been a cheerleader. Her boyfriend had been named Jack. She had planned on attending the University of Texas. She was going to be a second grade teacher. She had disappeared on a Tuesday night on her way home from a friend's house. She had been found two weeks later, her hands still bound, ligature marks on her neck. It had been cold so the body was fairly well preserved. She had been a virgin until Edward Masen got a hold of her. He had brutalized her in every way possible before tightening the cord around her neck and snuffing out her life.

Edward Cullen felt the bile rising up in him.

"Marnie's mother and I became friendly and sometimes we'd get together for coffee or just to chat. It was nice to have some that understood sometimes I _wanted_ to talk about my mother," Isabella said softly. "Then one day, out of the blue, she asked me if anyone ever knew what became of you." Isabella smiled at him. "And I realized that you had sort of dropped off the face of the earth."

"Wouldn't you?" Edward asked bitterly.

"Yes," she answered. "I would."

Her easy acceptance of his choice eased his discomfort.

"And I realized that the victims weren't just the ones who got their pictures in the paper, but it was everyone who loved them. And I started thinking about you...all the time. The only pictures I could find were...right after."

Edward knew those pictures well. He knew every smear of blood that had been on his body as they led him away from the house, every cut and bruise, every mark that had displayed his guilt to the world. _Behold, the seed of the monster_...

"So about a year ago, I decided that I wanted to find you...and thank you..."

"Thank me?"

Isabella scooted closer and Edward felt a momentary surge of panic. He resisted the urge to move away, to spare her his proximity.

"Edward, I can't imagine how difficult it was for you, what you had to do that night, how you survived. But I do know that you are a good, good man, and I'm more grateful than you can know that you exist." With that, she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, much like he was a child.

He reached up, wondering what was so warm and wet on his cheek.

He closed his eyes, and the memory assailed him. Once more, he felt the rough wood of the door as he pushed it open, his nose twitched as the miasma of odors overwhelmed him across the span of years and distance, filling his head until it swam. It had been the soft, single cry of pain that had drawn him, a sound that had pierced the night and lured him closer to the lair of the monster.

"Dad?" he had called out. A muffled scream – so out of place that he was sure he had imagined it, but still it compelled him forward. "Mom?"

And then hell had opened up and drawn him into its dark heart.

_**In part, this story was inspired by **__**Dark Rivers of the Heart**__** by Dean Koontz, except there won't be any massive government cover-up, beautiful but cold-hearted killers, dirty politicians, or cockroaches pinned to the wall. So I'm leaving out pretty much all the good stuff that was in Dark Rivers, LOL! I just wanted to explore the effect of a horrific crime on an invisible victim, those related to the killer, especially their children.**_


	5. Chapter 5

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

_**Author's Note: The children's book mentioned here is actually a story my grandfather wrote for me when I was a baby. I guess I treasure it immensely not only because I loved him very much and still miss him every day, but also because he was, on the surface, very much the taciturn military man. So the unexpected beauty of his gift has always made it especially dear to me. Anyway, that's where the story originated.**_

**Chapter 5**

"_**Kindness is the greatest wisdom." ~Author Unknown**_

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

Isabella ignored the moisture on his cheek for a moment and then she reached up and wiped it away without comment. Edward was discovering that Isabella Swan had the rare gift of knowing when to say absolutely nothing.

She settled back against the couch and lowered her gaze. Somehow, freed of the power of that dark glance, Edward found himself relaxing. The memories of that night fell away, or were pushed. It didn't matter. He was no longer in that hellish place of torment, no longer surrounded by the sights and smells and sounds of death.

"I think we need to lighten the mood," Isabella declared with an impish smile that seemed to be in direct contradiction to their circumstances.

Edward blinked at her. "Lighten the mood?"

It was as if she could see and smell and hear the horror that held him in its grip. And slowly, she was loosening its grasp and luring him into the light that seemed to surround her.

"Let's learn a little bit more about each other, shall we?" Edward was confused. He thought that's what they had been doing. But once more, Isabella seemed to have her own thoughts on the matter. "Nothing heavy or serious," she decreed. "And if you try to sneak in something like that, I'll..." She paused and tapped at her lips with one finger. "I'll think of something absolutely horrible to do to you."

"That's pretty vague," Edward noted with a slight smile. He realized that he had smiled more true smiles in the past forty-eight hours than in the sixteen years previous to those few days.

Isabella shrugged. "What can I say? Sometimes a vague threat is more effective."

He nodded. "Would you like a beer?" he offered.

"Sure," she said. "You know where the kitchen is. Knock yourself out." There was something intimate in the way she did not insist on waiting on him like a guest. For some strange reason, he liked it.

He got easily to his feet and soon returned with beers for both of them. How long had it been since he had allowed himself three beers in a single night? He couldn't remember if there had been such an occasion. Isabella, it seemed, was going to turn his world upside down, no matter his thoughts on the matter. "What were you like in college?" Isabella asked, wrapping up more securely in the afghan.

Edward shrugged, feeling somewhat embarrassed. "Serious," he finally said.

"As opposed to now?" Isabella teased and he found his face heating up as he shrugged again.

"What were _you_ like?" he questioned.

She rolled her eyes. "I was a bit of a hellion, I'm afraid." She smirked a bit. "My father says I like to push boundaries," she confided. "He's right, as he usually is." She sighed. "Still, he's always been understanding and patient with me, probably more than I deserve." Her slender shoulders lifted in something that resembled a shrug. He envied her the certainty of her father's love.

"Just the opposite of me. I'm afraid you'll find me a rather boring companion," he confessed.

"So let me guess," Isabella continued. "You were always the good boy, the one who obeyed all the rules, never broke curfew, never got a speeding ticket, never got high or drunk...never fell asleep in a girl's room..."

Edward shifted uncomfortably on the couch. How could he explain to her that rigidly following the rules had been his way of coping? It was his way of distancing himself from the past, from what his father had been and done. How could he confess that he knew the "good boy" was only a façade? A mask that covered the monster that would undeniably lurk beneath the innocent surface he had so carefully cultivated? He could not admit to that. He did not want this generous, kind woman to see what he really was. "No," he finally said. "I never did anything like that."

Isabella laughed. "I think I did all of that for you," she admitted. Then she frowned. "Except I never fell asleep in a girl's room. A _boy's_ room? Yes, guilty as charged. But my college years of experimentation never went that far." She shrugged. "A pity, I guess, as that's what your college years are for."

Edward found himself choking on the sip of beer he had taken. She laughed at him but he found he didn't mind.

She giggled and he found himself smiling at the sound. "So...tomorrow is Sunday and I'm guessing that you have plans?" she asked. A part of him wanted to hear wistfulness in her voice. Perhaps it was his imagination, or merely wishful thinking.

"Sometimes I have people over for football games," he admitted.

"Football's in season," Isabella remarked. "Are you having a get together?"

"Yes," Edward said quietly.

"That'll be fun."

He paused, took a fortifying sip of his beer. "Would you like to come?" He could not look at her as he said the words. He extended the invitation, all the while telling himself that it would be no different from having people from the office over.

"I'd love to," she said, surprising him yet again. He still did not care for surprises, but he was discovering that they were inevitable around Isabella.

He half expected that she would once more delve into more serious topics, but she kept the conversation light and directed on herself. She told him about her first kiss – on the dance floor and it had been a clumsy affair when she was fourteen years old. She didn't ask about his, but he got the sense that she refrained because she somehow knew it was a sensitive topic for him.

His own first kiss had been at fifteen, but not long after that, the truth about who his father was had come out and the girl's father had forbidden her from seeing him again. It was not long after that that his aunt and uncle had moved and had his name changed. They adopted him, and Edward Masen II no longer existed. They had left behind the nasty messages spray painted on the house, the whispers that followed them all when they went into town or Edward walked the hallways of the high school. They had made a fresh start for all of them. His aunt and uncle tried to forget her sister's ugly end, and Edward tried to forget that he had been spawned by evil incarnate. None of them were particularly successful in their efforts to forget.

Still, Edward Cullen had been born, and he had made the most of his second chance. He had buried the son of the monster, but not so deeply that he inadvertently let him out of his cage. Control became the altar at which he worshipped, moderation his prayer. In all things, Edward Cullen maintained control.

And so it had gone for more than a decade, and then...

Then one simple question from this woman with big brown eyes but an even bigger heart had rocked the foundations of the meticulously constructed existence he led.

What was it about her? What was different about Isabella Swan, beyond the obvious? Why had she, of all the people he had encountered over the years, been able to tug down those walls?

He did not know. It was a mystery he wasn't sure he _wished_ to solve.

They talked of things inconsequential and mundane. Together, they read the first book she had had published, the story of a mischievous little angel sent to earth to be someone's child. Edward discovered that Isabella's books for children had a charm all their own. They were the sort of books that a child would remember and cherish.

Then Edward noted the time and realized he had not been out so late in... He didn't know how long it had been since he had been out so late on a Saturday night. She walked him to the door and gave him a hug that had him struck still by surprise. Then she leaned up on her toes and gave his cheek a chaste peck.

As he walked out into the night, he reflected that the darkness looked different somehow.

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

Bella Swan closed the door and peeked out the window, watching the long, lean figure of a man walk away from her. Her smile was tender as she watched him pop his collar against the cooler night air. He had walked here, though with the distance between their homes being about a mile, most would have driven. But not Edward, she thought with a little sigh.

A part of her longed to run out to him, to pull him back into her home and embrace him closely. A larger part knew that now was not the time.

Edward Cullen was broken.

Oh, the façade was impeccable, and no one who _thought_ they knew him would guess at the tortured fears which haunted him. She, however, had seen through the mask and straight into the pure heart that beat within.

Edward, who was so afraid of becoming a monster that somewhere along the way he had forgotten to live.

She had watched him for weeks before she ever worked up the courage to knock on his door. Edward Cullen was a creature of habit. At first, she'd just found it odd. Then it had become oddly _endearing_. Finally, in a blinding flash of intuition, she had seen it for what it was.

It was his way of keeping some imagined evil inside of him under control.

Edward Cullen was all about control; Bella Swan favored impulse.

She had a feeling that she was about to see some long-forgotten science lesson put into action – something along the lines of immovable object meeting an irresistible force. Bella fully intended to be that irresistible force. What had started out as a vague inclination had become a burning desire to have an impact on Edward's life.

She hadn't been prepared for the full experience of looking into Edward Cullen's eyes for the first time. The only pictures she had seen of him were old and grainy and in black and white for the most part – old newspaper photographs taken of a boy as he was led from a house of death.

That boy had been alarmingly pale; his hair a shock of darkish color on top of his head, one eye swollen shut, and splatters and splashes of blood covering him. Only some of the blood had been his own. His hands had been dark with the stuff, like macabre gloves or some over-the-top Halloween costume.

But it had been April and the blood had been real.

For some reason, she had still expected to see that boy, though intellectually she knew that wasn't how things happened. From a distance, the shock hadn't been so great. Edward Masen, now Edward Cullen, was tall and slim, with long elegant fingers and a jaw line that would make Brat Pitt weep with envy. His brows had been dark wings above eyes she couldn't quite see from her distant vantage point.

Then she had knocked on his door and he had opened it and it had been those eyes that had been her downfall.

Bright green and beautiful, but so infinitely sad.

She had wanted to hug him close right then and there, but instead her mouth had gotten her into trouble, as so often happened. She had blurted out the hateful words and almost ruined everything.

Even she had been shocked by what came out of her mouth, and she had had a lifetime of getting used to her own tactlessness. Poor Edward had been dazzled all right, but not in a good way.

Still, they had managed to reconnect, though she knew it was with great reluctance on his part. How could she explain to him that the moment she had seen him that a sense of inevitable destiny had settled upon her and that it had never left? How could she tell him that she knew they would end up being more to each other than either of them could guess right now?

She wasn't sure he was her soul mate or anything, but she knew without any doubt that he would be instrumental in determining the path her life took from this moment on. Some things were meant to be. At times, destiny was cruel. On other occasions, however, it gave generously and freely and joyously.

Her mother's death had convinced Bella Swan that everyone had a fate. She knew that no one could avoid their fate. You could make choices and decisions all day long, but in the end, you were subject to the vagaries of fate and there was nothing to be done about it. Whether it was written in the stars or authored by a higher power, she did not know. What she did know was that every step, promise, and decision a person made merely carried them along to their destiny.

Edward Cullen, whether he knew it or not, was her fate. And she, in a way she could not yet know, was his. Would it end up being a lifelong friendship that saw each other through love and loss and finally ended up as two old people, reminiscing about the old days? Would they be closer than twins who had shared a womb and known each other ever since life first sparked? Would it be romance – a love affair that changed their lives and hearts forever? She didn't know, she only knew that it was going to happen. There would be no evading or ignoring it. It simply was.

She laughed and leaned against the door but the laughter soon turned into sobs. She sank to the floor and wished he was there with her so that she could hold him close and comfort him in her sorrow. She didn't fight the tears; in fact she sometimes welcomed them. They were cathartic and freeing; they strengthened her in a way she could not explain.

Edward had been shocked when tears slipped down his pale cheeks. She had seen it in his face when his fingers touched the dampness on his face. It was the face of a man stumbling upon an oasis in the desert, of being given a pardon as he mounted the scaffold steps. Edward was a man who needed a good cry, she decided. He needed to free that iron control he had cultivated for so long. He needed...her.

He needed her recklessness and impulsivity and carefree spirit. And she, somehow, needed him too. She needed his solid, reassuring presence. She craved his quiet, velvet voice and the bright green of his sad eyes. But most of all, she wanted to see that loving heart, that amazing, courageous spirit she sensed in him set free.

What was it about that beautiful, broken man that called out to her?

It went far beyond the grim history they shared, it went further than her acceptance of whatever destiny brought her way. There was something about him that called out to an essential, elemental part of her; she longed to heal and comfort him. She wanted to make him whole; she wanted him to see the man _she_ saw when she looked at him.

She wanted him to realize that he was his _mother's_ son.


	6. Chapter 6

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

**Author's Notes: I originally said that I expected this story to be about ten chapters long. I think now that estimate is a tad low. The characters have kind of gone off in their own direction and Edward is strangely reluctant to spill some beans. I can't hurry the poor man along. It would just be cruel. So... perhaps a few more chapters than ten. It became clear as I was writing that a bit more time would be needed for Edward to figure some things out.**

**Chapter 6**

"_**In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit." ~Albert Schweitzer**_

_**~Bad Blood~**_

How many times had he had people from the office over for a football game? He supposed he could come up with a number that would be close, but the whole point was that he shouldn't be nervous about today's little get together. He had played host almost countless times. He had kept the beer flowing, been able to spout stats about the teams that were both correct and insightful. He had paid enough attention to those who didn't really care about the game but just wanted to be around others. He had learned to give high-fives when "his" team did something good and to moan and bitch with the rest of them when they failed.

In other words, Edward Cullen wore his mask well. He wore it so well that he usually forgot it was a mask.

But today...Well, today was different, wasn't it? Today, Isabella Swan would be here in his house. Isabella Swan, the woman who had gotten a glimpse behind the mask and, for some unknowable reason, had decided that she could still abide his company. What was it about her that was capable of such grace and forgiveness?

Then the doorbell rang and Edward had no more time to ponder the mysteries of Isabella. He had the chips and dip out, the beer and sodas were ready, and the television was already on. He had wings being kept warm in the oven and plenty of finger foods to keep his guests contented.

First to arrive were Mike and his wife, Amy. Mike was an affable fellow, friendly and open. He had been the first to speak to Edward on Edward's first day of work. His wife was quiet but not excessively shy, just seeming to blend into the background when there were a lot of people around. Edward liked that about her, because he could sit quietly beside Amy and not feel the need to entertain her.

Then others from the office trickled in. And just as he was starting to get anxious about Isabella, wondering if perhaps she had had car trouble or been mugged or perhaps gotten in an accident, the doorbell rang and when he opened it, there she was. Something inside of him eased at the sight of her.

Her face was painted in team colors, though not the team that everyone else was rooting for, of course. Going along with the crowd was not Isabella Swan's style. She had a hat on her head that had space for beer cans, though right now they sported only Mountain Dew, and she had a giant foam finger on her hand.

"You and your team are going down, Cullen," she said as she breezed by him. "Just so you know."

He could only laugh and shake his head because Isabella was, as always, just herself. It should have been awkward with Isabella decked out in the opposing team colors, but instead she was so friendly and open and willing to both give and take insults with good-natured cockiness that she was soon surrounded by a bevy of Edward's acquaintances. There was only one awkward moment when Mike asked how they met. While Edward felt his mouth go dry and his palms go sweaty, Isabella leaned into him and rested her head briefly on his shoulder.

"We were at a bar, and this jerk kept bothering me," she said, giving the lie without a flicker of hesitation. "And Edward here was my avenging angel... my knight in shining armor." All of the women gave soft ahs of appreciation while the men gave Edward a high five. "And I'm afraid he's been stuck with me ever since."

Amy smiled and for once she offered an observation. "I don't think Edward minds very much," she said quietly. Amy was quiet but perceptive.

Isabella looked at Edward and grinned. "I don't mind either, not very much at all."

And that was how Isabella Swan became friends with almost everyone Edward Cullen knew. It took her exactly thirty two minutes.

_**~Bad Blood~**_

After everyone left, Isabella insisted on staying around to help Edward clean up the mess. "It's only fair," she said with a roll of her eyes when Edward tried to argue. She picked up empty beer bottles and soda cans and sorted them into Edward's recycling bins. She helped him pick up trash and then she vacuumed while he did the dishes. She wiped off the counters while he straightened up the living room and restored order to his small home.

When their work was done, she flopped onto his couch as if it was her own and heaved a sigh of tired satisfaction. "You actually know how to throw a shindig, Cullen. Color me surprised."

He looked at her with amusement. "Shindig?"

Isabella scowled. "It's a word, in fact it's a very _good_ word. Nothing quite gives the impression that 'shindig' gives, if you know what I mean."

"I'll bow to your expertise, you're the writer after all," Edward allowed.

Isabella gave a grunt that made him laugh. She was quite different from his aunt, but something about her reminded him of Esme. Perhaps it was her gentle wisdom, or her self-deprecating view of the world and her place in it, or her sense of humor. Or maybe...maybe it was that he could let his guard down just a little bit with her.

"Besides," Isabella said. "It was one of my mother's favorite words so I'm rather fond of it."

And the guard should have slammed back into place, but it didn't. Instead, Edward found himself looking at Isabella and asking her a question about one of the women who linked them together. "Did your mother love words like you do?"

Isabella smiled and closed her eyes. "Oh yes," she said. "We used to make up our own silly words when the English language failed us." She hugged herself and Edward felt a strange compulsion to do that for her. Her head rolled on the back of the couch and their eyes met. "What's your first memory of your mother?" she asked quietly.

Edward leaned on the couch too, found himself leaning in closer toward her. They didn't touch, not quite, but he could feel the heat radiating softly off of her body. It felt nice. He smiled. "I remember her teaching me how to ride my tricycle," he said. "It's not my very first memory of her, but it's the first absolutely_ clear_ memory I have." He closed his eyes. "It was red and she was wearing a shirt that matched it almost exactly."

"What was her favorite color?" Isabella asked.

"Hot pink," he said with no hesitation, his eyes still closed. Then he paused and gave a little laugh as he opened his eyes to look at her. "Isn't that funny? I didn't even know I remembered that."

"Did she like animals?"

"Dogs, definitely." He shook his head. "She liked cats too, but she was allergic to them."

"My mom was allergic to strawberries," Isabella said. "Did your mother like to read?"

"She loved to read," Edward said. "She liked to read history and biographies, but she also had a stash of what she called 'heaving bosoms and aching loins' books. She said they were her guilty pleasure." Edward smiled. "I just remembered that. Isn't that odd? I haven't thought about that in...years."

Isabella gave him a smile worthy of a sphinx and shrugged. "What kind of books do _you_ like to read?" Then she smirked. "Or are you also a fan of heaving bosoms and aching loins?"

"I like history too," he said solemnly, ignoring the laughter that threatened. "I guess that was inevitable since my mother used to tell me stories about Edward, the Hammer of the Scots and Elizabeth, the Virgin Queen. She told me that we had both been named after royalty and had a lot to live up to." He smiled and rubbed a strand of Isabella's hair between his fingers. Oddly, he didn't remember reaching for her, or taking that silken bit of warmth into his hand. He didn't let go.

"My mother liked mysteries," Isabella said. "Me? I don't care much for them."

Their eyes met again and the moment should have been awkward, but somehow...it wasn't.

"My mother loved to laugh," Edward said quietly. Isabella smiled and reached up to brush her fingers along his jaw. "We used to laugh so much..." He remembered his mother's gentle laughter with startling clarity, though it had been sixteen years and five months since he'd heard it.

"You have a wonderful laugh," Isabella said.

"You've never heard me laugh," Edward countered. He wondered what that said about him.

"Once," she insisted. "Once, I heard you give a real laugh, not just a polite chuckle. I didn't hear what made you laugh, but it was..." She shrugged. "I liked it. I want to hear it again and I intend to."

"I'll consider myself warned," he teased. Edward Cullen was _teasing_? Edward Cullen didn't tease. He didn't like surprises. He didn't like infuriating women who tilted his world upside down. Except...except when he did. He smiled at his own contrary thought processes.

The paint had been smudged on Isabella's face and he reached out and wiped a bit away. "I'm having another..._shindig_ next Sunday," he said. He rubbed the bit of paint between his fingers. "Would you like to come?"

"Of course," she said. "Who are you rooting for?"

He shook his head. "Same team as always." He grinned at her and she returned the favor.

"I'll be sure to sport the opposing colors."

He tilted his head and studied her. "You are, as ever, a mystery, Isabella Swan."

"Oh, Edward," she said, fluttering her lashes outrageously. "I do declare, you say the sweetest things," she added in her best Southern accent.

They talked quietly for almost an hour before Isabella told him that she had to get home. He walked her to the door and realized as he did so that he hadn't even worried that she was alone in his house and that no one knew she was still there. Somehow, Isabella was safe from the monster. Even _he_ dared not hurt her.

She gave him another kiss on the cheek when she left, but this one only surprised him a little bit. He closed the door and watched her out the window, telling himself that he was only making sure that she made it to her car safely. As he leaned against the door after her tail lights faded into the darkness, he experienced a pang of emotion.

Another man might have called it loneliness, but not Edward Cullen.

_**~Bad Blood~**_

The dream surprised him. It had been years since he had dreamed of that night. Or years since he _remembered_ dreaming about that night. He wasn't sure which it was, but it didn't really matter.

_Run, Edward, run..._

His mother's voice, soft and with a faint Southern accent, bringing to mind magnolia trees and mint juleps. He had never had a mint julep in his life; he knew only that his mother's accent brought them to mind. Gentle laughter, magnolia trees, mint juleps and...love.

_Run, Edward..._

He hadn't run. He couldn't run. He had stayed and faced the monster. But sometimes in the dream, the monster was him.

**~Bad Blood~**

The next morning, Edward arrived at the gym at precisely 6:15 a.m. He noted the time with vague satisfaction. He worked out hard, breaking a cleansing sweat and enjoying the slight burn in his muscles.

He arrived at the office at his usual time for a Monday. Janice was at her desk, as expected. All was right in Edward Cullen's little world.

Well, almost.

Janice gave him a sly grin when he approached to exchange their usual short pleasantries. "Your girl, she's very pretty," Janice said.

"She's not my girl," Edward said, puzzled and confused by the way he felt when Janice called Isabella "his" girl. It wasn't an altogether unpleasant sensation.

"Oh..." Janice said and gave him a wink. "Playing hard to get, are you?"

Edward just stared at her. What would make her think that he was playing hard to get? That he was playing anything at all? Edward didn't know how to play games. Even being "sociable" was exhausting. Games were beyond him. If anyone was capable of games, it was Isabella Swan. Her sense of fun would make her a natural, he mused. But she would never play cruel games, not Isabella. No, she was kind and thoughtful and generous.

Janice's laughter drew him from his own observations. "You're really cute like this," she said.

"Like what?" This wasn't how his Monday conversations with Janice were supposed to go and suddenly nothing was right in Edward's little world.

Or everything was right and he just didn't know it yet.

Janice just smiled and shook her head. Edward walked away but kept looking back over his shoulder, wondering at the slight smile that tugged at Janice's lips.

All day long, people offered him their good wishes and congratulations. Edward wasn't quite sure what he was to be congratulated for, but he figured it had something to do with having Isabella at his house and apparently feeling at ease with him.

He went home that night and realized, about halfway through a mindless sitcom, that he had half expected to hear a knock on his door. It took him another twenty-three minutes to realize that he was disappointed when it didn't come.

On Tuesday, he went to the diner where he usually ate lunch. To his surprise, someone was sitting in his booth. He shifted from foot to foot, feeling suddenly uneasy. Then the person who had stolen his booth turned to face him and he smiled, suddenly feeling quite...happy.

It was Isabella and she was smiling at him and beckoning him toward his booth – and toward her. Midge was smiling too when she approached with her order pad in hand. "Hello, Mr. Cullen, I see you have some charming company today."

Edward looked helplessly at Isabella, unsure how to respond. Isabella took charge in her usual charming manner. "Well, he's been bragging on the food here ever since I met him," Isabella said. "So I decided to come and check it out."

Midge beamed.

They ate lunch, and it was the most pleasant lunch in Edward's recent memory. When it was over, he insisted on paying the check. Isabella gave in, but only after promising that next Tuesday it was on her. He was so entranced by the thought of there being a "next" anything with Isabella that he agreed.

After exiting the diner, Isabella gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek and it didn't surprise him at all.

Wednesday passed with no surprises and no deviation in his routine. He went to bed that night feeling oddly out of sorts.

It was Thursday again and Edward prepared to leave the house so that he could go to the dry cleaners and pick up his clothing (and drop off some too, of course). Somehow, he was not surprised that when he opened his door, there was Isabella sitting on the top step. She had a paper bag at her side.

"I thought I'd join you," she said as if they had already discussed it. "And I've got some shit to drop off too." He blinked at the casual obscenity, and Isabella rolled her eyes at him before tugging at his arm to get him moving.

He was not late to the dry cleaners. Sharon seemed to find Isabella fascinating and gushed when Isabella commented on the new photos of her grandchildren. Then Sharon patted Edward on the arm and told him that Isabella was a keeper.

Isabella smirked and then nudged Edward in the side. "I'm a keeper, Cullen," she told him. "You need to remember that."

He wasn't sure exactly what a "keeper" was, but it sounded like a good thing.

On Friday, his body tried to remind him that it was time to go to O'Flannery's, which was next on his rotation. However, he couldn't find the shirt he wanted though it should have been in its usual place in the closet and his favorite pants seemed to have acquired a mustard stain and his dress shoes pinched, though they had been perfectly comfortable a few weeks ago and he had forgotten to get cash out of the ATM as he usually did on Friday afternoons. It was all most frustrating.

So, in the end, he just put on some sweat pants and an old, worn tee-shirt and popped a movie in the DVD player and fell asleep on his couch.

Without having fucked. Twice.


	7. Chapter 7

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

_**Author's Note: This chapter is a little longer than the others. It just had to be to cover what needed to be covered. Thank you for reading, as always. Your kind words make my days!**_

**Chapter 7**

"_**We first make our habits and then our habits make us." - **__**John Dryden**_

On Saturday morning, Edward Cullen woke up with yet another unexpected complication in his life. An erection. He stared down at it, obviously aware of what it was but not really expecting it.

After all, it was _Saturday_. And Saturday erections just weren't on the schedule. If he got morning "wood" as Mike unfortunately liked to call it, he was usually quite good at ignoring it and it went away quite quickly. His body was his to control, after all. He might be a monster, but he was a monster who had developed control. He wore his leash quite neatly.

On Fridays, he anticipated waking up with a throbbing need in his groin. His dick recognized Fridays. Even Thursdays could prove challenging, as his body began preparing itself for the inevitable twin releases it knew was coming. But usually on Saturday, he would wake up feeling sated and vaguely guilty, but not hard. Sated because his body's needs had been answered – twice – and guilty because he was incapable of the gentler emotions.

But he would take what he could get. And fucking was a good substitute for the other things that were not his to claim. He liked fucking. Fucking was good. It was a safe outlet. It hurt no one, and brought pleasure if it was done right.

An erection on a Saturday morning was both unexpected and unwelcomed.

He tried to ignore the thing as best he could, thinking of it as an unauthorized use of erectile tissue, but when he got into the shower his hand brushed against it and he was immediately lost to sensation. Before he could argue with himself, his hand was wrapped around his shaft and he was thrusting into his own grip. Deliberately, he kept his mind as blank as possible, which only prolonged the distasteful affair. He had manufactured just a glimpse of dark hair and laughing dark eyes and then he erupted in spurts against his shower wall.

Carefully, he rinsed away the evidence of his weakness without looking at it.

He had always hated the sight of his own ejaculate. He knew that within it, as within his blood, there rested the potential for evil and violence. He hated the monster that surged and lived inside of him, but hated even more the sight of the fluids in which the demon lived. This hatred of part of him had been the primary reason he had never foregone using a condom. Safe sex was about so much more than preventing disease and pregnancy, for Edward it was about avoiding death and bloodshed. He could no more pulse his dirty seed into a woman than he could imagine wrapping his hands around her throat and choking the life from her.

Of course, he was well aware of why his body was currently in rebellion. He had missed out on obtaining his releases, not only this week but the week before. His body hungered.

Briefly, he considered going out that night.

But it was Saturday, and such an elemental change to his routine made him feel uneasy. He failed to realize that by falling asleep on his couch on a Friday night, he had already experienced a fundamental shift of priorities.

Illusions were such a comfort at times.

_**~Bad Blood~**_

Bella had spent an equally frustrating Friday night. She had wanted to call up Edward and ask him to go out, but from having stalked him for weeks before she introduced herself (and hadn't _that_ gone well?) she knew that on Fridays, Edward Cullen liked to get his freak on.

For a man as tightly wound as Edward, she knew that he probably needed those Friday nights. God knows, she could have used a little freakiness herself. Still, she had her trusty Rabbit in the drawer by her bed. It was better than nothing. Kind of.

She couldn't deny that she craved the heat of a man's flesh against hers, the sound of his heart beating beneath her cheek, the crisp feel of his legs hairs as they entwined with hers as they slept. She wanted the dips and swells of masculine flesh pressed to her own softer form. But far more than the physical presence of a man in her life, she wanted someone who cared about her as a woman and a person.

Was that so much to ask?

A few years ago, she might have tried to scratch the itch with an anonymous male body, someone to foster the illusion, even if only briefly and imperfectly. As time had passed however, and she had learned that meaningless sex, even really _good_ meaningless sex, didn't truly do anything to assuage the hunger or quench the thirst.

At the end of it, she was still left hungry and thirsty for more.

On Friday night, she had been sorely tempted to just show up at his usual bar. It would be O'Flannerys, if he followed his usual routine. Of course, if there was one thing a girl could trust Edward to do, it was to follow his routine. Two things had stopped her. One, she had a sneaking suspicion that if she saw Edward making the moves on some woman she had the potential to turn into a raving shrew and that wasn't like her. Second, she didn't want to crowd him.

Getting to know Edward Cullen was a lot like taming a wild creature. Not so much a wild creature as an extraordinarily _skittish_ one. She often felt as if she was luring him closer and closer, soothing him every step of the way, retreating when he started to feel threatened, advancing when he settled.

It was exhausting work.

But strangely, she found it rewarding.

As she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, she wondered if his lips would be as soft and warm as they appeared to be if she claimed then in a real kiss. She wondered how they would taste, and if his tongue would be as exciting as her imagination hinted at. She wondered how it would feel to be hauled up against that long, lean body and feel the definition of his chest and hips pressed to hers, perhaps the hard length of his cock nestled against her belly.

She wondered, most of all, if Edward would ever realize what a truly amazing man he was. She intended to do everything possible to show him.

_**~Bad Blood~**_

On Saturday evening, Edward found himself telling his Aunt Esme about the strange, exasperating, and yet somehow compelling young woman who had shown up on his porch. They talked about mundane matters for a while. Then, to Edward's surprise, the words slipped past his lips.

"I met someone," he blurted.

There was a long moment of silence on the other end. "Really?" Aunt Esme said gently. "How wonderful."

Edward debated telling her the whole sordid story of how Isabella's life had been linked to his so many years ago. Isabella had told him that some things were just fate and then told him to "chill out." He had tried to "chill out" but the concept was a little foreign to him.

Isabella, on the other hand, seemed to be fluent in _chilling out_. He rather thought it might be her native language. In any case, she seemed determined to tutor him in the subject. He would be her pupil – willing or not.

Edward took a deep breath and girded his mental loins. "She's..." How to tell his aunt who and what Isabella Swan really was? "Her mother was Renee Dwyer." No further explanation was necessary. His aunt knew the names as well as Edward himself did. He suspected that those names danced through her nightmares almost as often as they did through his.

There was a long, expectant pause from the other end of the line. "How did you find each other?"

Ah, now that was the question, wasn't it? Edward wasn't sure if fully exploring that answer was conducive to "chilling out" but he figured he owed his aunt an explanation. "She found me, actually," he said. "She's...very different from anyone I've ever met, Aunt Esme."

"Is she now?" His aunt's words were soft, almost a breath, a sigh of sound. "Is she...kind?"

Edward knew what she was asking of course. Like him, Esme had faced the wrath and disgust of those who blamed them for the actions of the monster who had been known as Edward Masen. That her sister had also been a victim hadn't mattered to some people. His aunt knew all about hatred and fear and the poison they generated.

"She's very kind, Aunt Esme. She's very..." Edward sighed. "We talk about our mothers – the way they lived, not the way-"

He did not say the words, _could_ not say them. But she understood.

"I'm glad, Edward," Aunt Esme said.

When he hung up, he felt both content and out of sorts.

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

On Saturday night, after his conversation with his aunt, Isabella surprised him by showing up at his door. She had several DVD cases in her hand, a sack full of what smelled like cookies, and a quart of chocolate milk tucked underneath one arm. "Geez, Cullen, let me in or I'm gonna drop this shit."

He opened the door, torn between stunned surprise and amusement. His little home suddenly appeared more brightly lit and a subtle scent of flowers filled his senses.

"I baked," Isabella said, thrusting the bag of cookies into his hands. "Chocolate chip oatmeal cookies. You'll like them. Trust me."

Edward obediently opened the bag and snagged a cookie to sample. She was right. He liked them.

"We're going to watch a movie, but I'll give you a choice." She held up the DVDs and shook them. "Sappy romance, zombies, vampires, stuff blowing up, or a dude in tights."

"Uh..." He hardly knew what to say. "Stuff blowing up?" he ventured. It must have been a good choice because Isabella grinned.

"I like your style, Cullen," she informed him as she breezed past.

So it was that Edward Cullen found himself on his couch, eating oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, drinking chocolate milk, and watching things explode.

On a Saturday.

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

On Sunday, Isabella arrived donned in, as she had promised, the opposing team's colors. His friends all booed her excessively when she walked in the door and she shot them the finger, which made them all laugh. The intricacies and etiquette of the exchange eluded Edward, but he went along with it since no one seemed to mind much.

The week before, "his" team had won, despite Isabella's dire prediction. On this day, however, Isabella's team took the day, a fact which she threw in everyone's faces with delighted abandon. There were quite a few utterances of "suck it!" and "bite me!" Isabella told him that gracious winners were just too scared to rub it in everyone's noses. She seemed to suffer no such compunctions. Everyone seemed to take it in stride, so Edward did too. Or tried.

As before, Isabella insisted on helping him set the house to rights after everyone else left. He was not surprised this time when she flopped down on his couch and gazed at him expectantly. In fact, he realized with a start of surprise that he had kind of been looking forward to sitting down and talking about whatever surprising topic Isabella might decide was appropriate.

Isabella plucked at her football jersey, looking uncharacteristically solemn.

Edward reached out and tugged at her fingers, disturbed at the sight of her agitation though he wasn't sure why. "What's wrong?" he asked softly.

Isabella was silent for a moment and then wrapped her fingers around his, holding him fast. Her eyes flickered up to meet his and she gave him a sad smile. "It's my mother's birthday this week."

"When?" he asked after a moment's pause.

"On Wednesday," she replied.

Edward was struck by a wild impulse, something so outside his comfort zone that he felt almost breathless. His palms were sweaty but he refused to relinquish Isabella's hand, so he could only hope desperately that she wouldn't notice the deluge currently cascading off his palms.

"How about I take the day off and we can go..." It was here that his inspiration failed him. They could go where? Do what? What possible comfort could he offer her? He had to leave it at that and trust in Isabella's very vivid imagination.

Isabella's brown eyes went soft and warm. "Thank you," she said simply. "I'd love that."

And just like that, Edward Cullen had offered real comfort. And just like that, Isabella Swan had accepted it.

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

On Monday morning, Edward arrived at the gym at precisely 6:15. He worked out, following his usual routine. He was surprised to see a small bouquet of flowers on Janice's desk. He tried to ignore them, but her eyes kept darting toward them so he finally had to ask about them.

"Oh," Janice said with a slight smile. "They're from Bella."

Of all the answers Janice might have given him, that one was on the top ten of unexpected responses. His expression must have revealed his confusion because she smiled again and shook her head. "Yesterday, I told her that my cat Shmi died last week and that I was feeling a little down. I got here this morning and these were already waiting for me..." Once more, her eyes darted toward the little bouquet. She plucked the card that was nestled in the blooms and held it so that Edward could read it.

"_**A pet is never truly forgotten until  
it is no longer remembered."  
-Lacie Petitto **_

_**Thinking of you, and knowing that Shmi will never be forgotten.**_

_**~Bella**_

Edward stared at the card for a moment, struck by Isabella's kindness. She was exasperating, reckless, and impulsive, but she was also unfailingly kind and generous and thoughtful. He could hardly speak, so he handed the card back to Janice. "I'm sorry," he muttered and walked away. Very quickly.

Later that day, Janice stopped by his desk with a cup of coffee – just the way he liked it. She gave his shoulder a little squeeze and then left without a word. He was so astonished at the unexpected turn of events that he got up from his desk, went to the door of his office and watched Janice walk away. He was completely unsure what it all meant, but something inside of him unfurled and spread warmth throughout him.

_**~Bad Blood~**_

Because he had told his boss that he was taking the day off on Wednesday, Edward paid particular attention to his work on Tuesday. Not that he ever slacked, but he arrived early and worked diligently up until the time he had to leave for the diner. For some reason, he kept checking his watch and the hours passed by more slowly than they usually did. He enjoyed working, though he knew that someone else might find his work boring and mundane. He liked the numbers, he liked the way they made sense and that if he added the same numbers 997 times, he would always end up with exactly the same answer. Every time. No surprises.

His stance on surprises was well known.

No one had been particularly surprised when he became an accountant. He had always had an affinity for numbers, had always appreciate the crisp, clean logic of them. Usually, his work was a source of solace and comfort, but today...how slowly the numbers moved on the digital display of his watch.

He was meeting Isabella for lunch. If lunchtime ever arrived.

At last, when he glanced at his watch (it was only the seventh time in the last twenty two minutes), it was time to walk to the diner. Isabella was in their booth and Midge was already chatting with her. Isabella had ordered for him, his usual fare, and doubled the order for herself. They didn't talk much, but Edward found the silence didn't really bother him.

When they were done eating, Isabella paid the bill, reminding him of his promise when he reached for his wallet. She left Midge a generous tip and gave her a hug on her way out of the diner. Edward frowned at the sight, though he wasn't sure why. When they stepped outside, Isabella gave him a hug too, but it didn't feel special. Then she stood on her tip toes and pressed a sweet kiss to his cheek, reached down to where his hand was in his pocket, pulled it free and gave it a squeeze.

He smiled all the way back to work.

_**~Bad Blood~**_

On Wednesday morning he woke with a sense of anticipation. Then he realized that it even though it was Wednesday, he wouldn't be going to work. He did get up at his usual time and he went to the gym. When he left the gym, however, he went back home and took a shower and got dressed in blue jeans and a button up shirt. It felt odd to be wearing jeans at eight o'clock on a Wednesday morning.

Then he got into his car and drove to Isabella's house and walked up to the door and knocked on it like he had been doing so for weeks or months or maybe even years. When she opened the door, he wasn't quite sure what he expected, but the bright smile she gave him in greeting wasn't it.

She hugged him. Again. But it wasn't so bad, really, once one got used to it. She grabbed her purse from a small table near the front door and tugged at his hand as soon as she locked the door. "Come on," she urged. "We have a lot to do and only a day to do it in!"

He followed her to his car, reminded her to put on her seatbelt, and then started the engine. "First stop is the zoo," she said when he turned to her expectantly.

"The zoo?" he asked.

"My mother used to take me to the zoo all the time," Isabella told him. "And I hear the zoo here is fantastic. So...take us to the zoo."

"All righty then," he said with a nod.

It had been years, eighteen of them to be precise, since Edward Cullen had stepped foot inside a zoo. They were nicer than he remembered, and there didn't seem to be a cage in sight. Now the animals were housed in what were more natural landscapes and Edward realized he was glad. Isabella seemed to find all of the animals fascinating, even the ugly ones like the snakes and other reptiles. She waddled like a penguin, roared like a lion, trumpeted like an elephant, and tried to slither like a snake. She didn't even mind when people stared at her or laughed or shook their heads.

No, Isabella was simply herself. Unique. Special.

Later that night, as he climbed in between the cool, clean sheets of his bed, Edward thought about their day together. Isabella had spoken of her mother, giving little insights here and there as they went about their activities. When they had eaten pizza for lunch, Edward had discovered that Isabella's mother had ordered pizza every birthday. When they had gone bowling, he found out that Isabella had once broken her arm bowling with her mother. He hadn't believed her until she showed him the small scar on her elbow. She had still beaten him, scar or not, but Edward had taken his defeat graciously, despite Isabella's thoughts on gracious losers.

Over a dinner of tacos and corndogs and thick chocolate shakes, Isabella had regaled him with stories of her childhood. He was not surprised to find out that Isabella had always been something of a daredevil, getting into mischief with frightening ease. She showed him several more scars and then told him the story behind them. She had a rather worrisome array of scars to display. Edward had finally realized that Isabella wasn't particularly clumsy, she was, instead, rather reckless. That realization made him anxious.

Then he had driven her home and walked her to her door. She had looked tired and drawn so he had not been surprised when she had not invited him inside. Instead, she had given him another hug. And a kiss on each cheek. Then she had wrapped her arms around him again and squeezed him tightly, resting her head on his chest for a moment.

"Thank you," she murmured, still pressed up against him and her eyes closed. "Thank you for today."

He wasn't sure how to tell her that it had been his pleasure, or even if it was appropriate to do so. Instead, he just squeezed her back and then placed a kiss on the top of her head and then her forehead. He closed his eyes for a moment too, enjoying the soft heat of her pressed against him. "You're welcome," he said simply.

Then he drove home and didn't go for a run, deciding that the extra calories he had consumed would simply have to find a comfortable place to settle in. He slept, and his sleep was free of dreams or nightmares.

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

On Thursday morning, Isabella was sitting on his steps waiting for him. He was not surprised and not upset. He handed her a cinnamon bagel, lightly spread with butter. "My favorite," Isabella moaned.

He had known that. And he had been proud that he remembered it.

Everyone at work asked where he had been and he told them only that he had taken the day off. He spotted an odd smile on the face of more than one co-worker, but he ignored it. He had no time or inclination to figure out any more mysteries.

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

Friday, during lunch, Edward called Isabella and asked her if she'd like to go out just to get to know her new town a little bit better. She said yes. That evening, as Edward got dressed, he discovered that his shoes no longer pinched, his favorite shirt was precisely where it should have been, the mustard stain in his pants had come out in the wash, and he had remembered to get cash on his way home from work. All was as it should be.

They went to Rock's, which was next on Edward's rotation. But they found a table in the corner and talked during the sporadic lulls in the music. Isabella asked him to dance. Twice.

He did. Once.

While they were dancing, Isabella wrapped her arms around his neck and brought her lips closer to his face. For one wild moment, he thought she was going to kiss him, _really_ kiss him, but they she detoured and her mouth as at his ear. The brush of her warm breath was almost enough to convince him that he was not disappointed.

"My mother would have loved you," Isabella murmured. Of course, they both knew just how important and sacred those words were. He wanted to thank her, to kneel at her feet and gaze up at her in adoration. Instead, he simply smiled and nodded, but the look in her eyes told him that she knew he understood.

He had three beers instead of two. Isabella sucked down four drinks and didn't seem to feel them. Edward himself felt a small, pleasant buzz. He pondered how beautiful Isabella looked in her tight jeans and blue sweater and cowboy boots. He half expected to see her name on the back of a large leather belt. Something about her ass in those jeans invited his touch, but he refrained.

Three times, his eyes scanned the room and he knew that a month ago, he might have even focused in on a few of these women as possible companions for the evening. But on this particular evening there was no one who really struck his fancy and besides, he knew it would be rather rude. So he didn't really look too hard or too long. Instead, he simply enjoyed Isabella's company.

Then she yawned and he knew that the evening should come to a close, so he drove her home and walked her to her door. She fumbled with the lock for a moment, perhaps feeling the alcohol after all, and then opened it with a triumphant "A HA!" that made him want to laugh.

She hugged him. She kissed his cheek. Then the other cheek. Then she cradled his face in her hands and pressed a soft, sweet kiss to his lips. She tasted of orange juice and vodka and something else that Edward sensed was simply Isabella.

"You're so beautiful," one of them whispered and he realized it was _her_, calling _him_ beautiful.

He did laugh then. Intoxicated was no longer in question. He kissed her forehead. "Goodnight, Isabella," he said.

She rolled her eyes. "It's Bella, Bella, _Bella..._ I told you that."

He smiled at her and hugged her. "Good night...Bella...Bella..._Bella." _ She laughed and he liked the sound of it so much that he was tempted to tease her again. But he couldn't figure out how or what to say and the moment passed.

"Good night...beautiful." She was quite pleased with herself, he could tell.

Then she snickered and stumbled into her house, her laughter following him back to his car like a good friend and he smiled at being able to hear it again.

He realized, as he drove away, that even though it was a Friday, he didn't mind much not having fucked. Twice. Or even once.


	8. Chapter 8

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

**Chapter 8**

"_**Happiness often sneaks in through a door you didn't know you left open." ~John Barrymore**_

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

For the next several weeks, things proceeded along with little effort needed on Edward's part. Isabella seemed more than capable of directing their – whatever it was – and Edward was content to let her do so. For a man who had found solace in control, he was vastly surprised to find contentment in surrender.

On Saturdays, they would watch movies and eat cookies and drink chocolate milk until their bellies ached. Sometimes Edward thought that their bellies ached not from the vast amounts of cookies and milk they had consumed but from how much they laughed. Isabella had made good on her threat to make him laugh. She had a sarcastic and irreverent sense of humor that drew him out in spite of himself. Even during the most solemn moments, laughter lurked in Isabella's dark eyes and in the quirk of her pink lips. And Edward found her amusement impossible to resist.

Isabella invariably favored movies of the action variety, while Edward had a not so secret fondness for all things science fiction. He also had a new favorite cookie, chocolate chip oatmeal. And he kept a half-gallon of chocolate milk in his refrigerator. For some reason, every time he opened his refrigerator and saw that new addition to his grocery list, he smiled.

Sundays would find him anticipating Isabella's arrival in opposing team colors. Once, he asked her how it was that she had so many footballs jerseys, hats, foam fingers, and beer hats. She had grinned at him. "I used to do the same thing to my father – just to annoy him." Then she shrugged. "I've never been one to go with the flow."

"Obviously," Edward had agreed with a smirk.

She had kissed him on the cheek then. "See? I knew you'd understand me."

As she so often did, Isabella struck him silent with that observation. Never, in the whole of his life, had _he_ been the one to "get" someone else. To have it happen now, when he had given up all hope or expectation of it, and to have it happen with Isabella was a gift beyond measure. Out of all the people in the world, she was the one from which he should have least expected friendship and understanding. Instead, she gave both with open hands and a generous heart.

On Sundays, Isabella exchanged insults and taunts with his friends. One Sunday, Mike brought her a mug with what he was sure would be "her" team colors. The next week, Janice brought her a tee-shirt sporting colors for another team. Isabella accepted them all with enthusiastic hugs and many cocky promises as to how they were all "going down" in defeat. On their fifth Sunday, she arrived with cupcakes graced with both team colors. But only her team's cupcakes were chocolate. Edward was quite sure she did it on purpose. One day, his team's cupcakes were carrot cake, which she knew was a particular dislike of his. Once again, he was sure she did that quite deliberately.

But he couldn't say he disliked it.

Isabella was always the last to arrive but the last to leave as well. They had worked out a nice routine for cleaning up the mess left behind by their friends. One would wash while the other would dry, one would pick up while the other vacuumed. And at the end, they would fall down on the couch and talk.

Often, they spoke of their mothers. Sometimes, they spoke of Isabella's father. She shared with Edward how difficult it had been for a man to suddenly have a fulltime daughter who was just on the cusp of being a woman and how they had muddled through her adolescence together. They had had some difficulties after her mother's death. Isabella's anger and Charlie's understandable over protectiveness had made for an uncomfortable combination. But they had worked through their problems. It was quite obvious to Edward that she was very close to her father, for her eyes lit up and she couldn't help but smile when she spoke of Charlie Swan.

They never spoke of Edward's father and neither of them seemed to feel any need to do so. Then Edward began talking about his aunt and his uncle, who had raised him after that April night. He spoke of their love and devotion and patience. He told Isabella how they had uprooted their lives to give him anonymity, and how they had never made him feel as if they minded.

He confessed that sometimes he felt guilty for loving his aunt so much, and Isabella told him that sometimes she was mad at her father for allowing her mother to divorce him. "If she'd been in Forks, she'd be alive now." Then she had looked at him and her smile was tender. "But then I wouldn't have met you, so..." She had shrugged and leaned forward to kiss his forehead. She liked doing that, he had noticed. Edward accepted her kiss with dazed bemusement.

The mere possibility that she would feel knowing him might make up for, in _any _small way, the loss of her mother, stunned Edward into silence. It took him days to really find his tongue again, but Isabella never pushed it, perhaps sensing what her words had meant to him.

On Monday mornings, Janice would ask him how his weekend had been, even though she had seen him – and Isabella – the day before. Then she would present him with a small package of baked goods and ask him, "Could you give these to Bella, please?" Soon, it was customary for him to drop by Isabella's house on Monday evening to make sure she got her package in a timely manner. Invariably, there would be some delicious treat that Isabella would share with him. They would moan and groan and promise each other that this was the last time they would overindulge. That was the one promise they broke over and over again.

He liked being able to assure Janice on Tuesday morning that he had delivered the goods as promised. And to tell her how delicious they had been. For some reason, that always made Janice smile. Edward also discovered that Isabella's desire to hug had become contagious. Janice and Midge and Sharon all now felt compelled to give him a hug when he saw them. He didn't understand it, but he wouldn't say he hated it either.

On Tuesdays, Edward and Isabella ate in the diner. Soon Midge was getting their order prepared ahead of time and almost as soon as they walked in, the food would arrive at the table. They took turns paying, getting into friendly tussles every now and then just because they liked teasing each other. The experience of being teased in a friendly way by someone who genuinely liked him was such a novel experience for Edward that at first he wondered if Isabella was trying to disguise unkind words and thoughts behind her gentle banter. But it hadn't taken him long to realize that Isabella was exactly as she appeared to be. She had no time or need for subterfuge. She was simply herself.

Sometimes, Midge would surprise them with a piece of pie – which they would share. Edward noticed that the pie always tasted better when he had Isabella to share it with him.

Wednesday evenings would still find Edward taking an extra long run, after all he had been eating quite a bit more and he had to do something to keep in shape. Except now, he ran with a companion. Isabella could keep up with him; in fact, she could outrun him if she put her mind to it. If the weather was bad, they would meet at the gym and run on the track there. Edward's treadmill was sadly neglected and had been relegated to being an expensive ornament. It didn't bother him in the least.

Thursday mornings, they would go to the dry cleaners and Isabella would always have an item or two that he would never remember seeing her wear. Isabella and Sharon would talk for a few minutes and then Isabella would go home to write and Edward would go to work.

Every day of the week went smoothly.

But Edward found that it was on Fridays that they were forming their deepest connection. True, there was the problem of the underlying sexual frustration on Edward's part. It was a low buzz just beneath the surface of his skin, but it was bearable. A man who had spent half his life developing his sense of control was more than capable of going without sex for a few months. It had taken him two decades of life to work up the courage to find refuge in a woman's body for the first time. He could certainly handle a small drought. It was all in the name of spending time with Isabella and so he considered it a negligible loss.

He had learned to accept the fact that every now and then his hand would find that turgid flesh between his legs and he would stroke himself to a short-lived relief, all the while ignoring the shameful harvest of his weakness. But better that embarrassing slip of control than to give Isabella a glimpse into his sordid little trysts.

For some reason, she saw something better in him, something _more_ than he what he knew existed. In his loneliness, he allowed her to think he was the man she saw when she looked at him. She couldn't know the terrible and secret fears he harbored. She didn't suspect what he knew to be true. One day, she would see past the mask and she would leave.

But until that day, he would bask in her acceptance.

So on Friday nights they danced.

And danced. In their movements, he found another kind of release. It wasn't sexual, and they didn't do it twice. They danced until they could hardly stand, until their muscles twitched and ached with sated fatigue.

Isabella no longer allowed him to refuse when she tugged at his hands and pulled him onto the dance floor. One Saturday night, as they had shared cookies and chocolate milk and watched Bruce Willis kicking ass, he had told her that one of his fondest memories was of watching his mother dance. Even when she cooked or cleaned, there was music playing in the Masen household and invariably his mother would be swaying in time to it. He did not tell her that sometimes his father would sweep his mother into his arms and they would dance cheek-to-cheek, or that his mother always blushed and smiled a secret smile full of feminine knowledge when they did.

No, Edward preferred to remember only his mother, moving in time to the strains of music, her face alight with the joy she found in it.

Ever since Isabella had uncovered that memory, she had been dragging him out to the dance floor of whatever bar they happened to be at that Friday night. Sometimes the dance floor was tiny and dark and crowded and they moved to the sounds of Irish folk music or covers of country classics. Sometimes the dance floor was spacious and crowded, lights flashing over their faces as they moved to the latest techno craze. It didn't seem to matter to Isabella. She wanted to dance, to move, to immerse herself in whatever music was playing.

Edward found himself embarrassed at first. Then he was enchanted, taken along on the currents of Isabella's magic. Her body moved with carefree grace, no hint of awkwardness or self-consciousness. Her hands would flutter over his body as she pulled him into her own little sphere. Isabella created her own world, and by some miracle she invited him into it. If he proved reluctant, she simply tugged him inside of it, giving him no chance to refuse. He found he didn't really want to deny her that simple pleasure. It took so little to make her happy, and Edward found, for once, that he could reciprocate. He could do _for_ her.

Tonight, the buzz beneath his skin had progressed to a tingling that threatened to become a pounding as he watched Isabella move. Then the music ended and her hand came to a rest on his chest, exactly over the place where his heart was thundering. She was staring up at him, her lips slightly parted and moist from where she had been licking them.

He couldn't look away from her eyes. Or her lips. His eyes bounced between those two spots in the universe, the true north of his small little life. Without thought, without even giving himself permission, he found his head dipping toward her, his lips already molding themselves to what he knew hers would feel like. She stared at him for what seemed the eternity it took his mouth to reach hers.

He kept waiting for her to move, to flinch away, to turn her head. Instead, her mouth grew softer and her eyes warmer, almost in welcome. Her hand moved up from his heart and trailed up over his shoulder until her fingers were teasing at his neck, threading through his hair. It almost felt as if she was urging his lips closer to hers.

And then their lips touched.

He had been the grateful recipient of many Isabella kisses. Sisterly kisses, maternal kisses, affectionate kisses. But this one was different. Never, not once, had he kissed _her. _Always, it had been Isabella granting him that token of warmth. This time, her lips softened and opened beneath his, welcoming his touch. As their lips met, she pressed up against him, fitting their bodies together like puzzle pieces long separated and finally reunited. Her tongue traced along his upper lip before dipping into his mouth. It explored him tentatively, gently.

Then she gave a little moan and he felt the shiver that ran through her and both of her hands came up and were buried in his hair, alternately tugging and soothing and always urging him on. As his tongue touched hers, rubbing and tasting, he realized that this single public kiss was more intimate than all the fucking he had done in his entire life combined.

This was more than the touching of flesh. It was the brushing of battered souls against each other, the clasp of hands that were both terrified and hopeful. The music started up again, but they didn't move away from each other. The beat was fast and pounding but their bodies only swayed against each other in some timeless, ancient rhythm that spoke of things to come. In her movements, Edward felt the lover she would be, gained a sense of what would please her and tease her and make her cry out with satisfaction. In the strength of her hands, he recognized her loyalty and honesty and in the press of her body, he caught a glimpse of what might one day be.

When at last they pulled away from each other, betrayed by the mundane but imperative need to breathe, something had changed. Something had shifted, not just between them, but _inside_ of them. A different Edward and Isabella had walked onto that dance floor than would walk off of it. His hand was shaking as he brushed the hair back from her glistening face. She turned slightly, nestling her cheek into his palm and nuzzling into him.

He had been about to ask her if it had been okay that he kissed her, but that simple movement told him all he needed to know. It was not only okay, it had been right. He smiled then, having no need of words to appreciate the feelings that were expanding inside of him. Loneliness and fear were pushed out of the way and happiness and hope began to take root instead.

All the dark and empty places within him were filled up with Isabella.


	9. Chapter 9

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

**Chapter 9**

"_**Rest is sweet after strife." – Lord Edward Bulwer Lytton, 1**__**st**__** Earl of Lytton**_

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

That Friday night, instead of dropping Isabella off at her house, he took her to his. They didn't speak about the change in plans, but there was no surprise on her face when he turned left instead of right. When he got out of the car and walked around to her side and opened the door for her, she simply put her hand in his. Silently, they walked up the three steps of his porch and she paused, allowing him to get his key into the door.

As he entered first, and turned on the light, she came in behind him and gently placed her hand on his shoulder. Her touch was light but not tentative, warm but not sweaty. It was a slight, reassuring weight.

His body reacted, but not in the way he had expected it would. There was desire, naturally, coursing through his veins. But much more than that, a terrifying and exhilarating sense of inevitability sang through him. They would not make love tonight; he knew that without even having to ask Isabella's thoughts on the matter. Tonight, however, he knew that they would – when the time was right. And the time was approaching quickly.

Not quite yet, for they had much of each other left to explore. Unlike so many lovers among their friends, they had already begun the discovery of each other's minds and hearts. What was left now to explore were each other's body, what every sigh and shiver meant, when and where to touch for what effect, what would please her and what would drive her insane with need that he would answer.

Was she ticklish behind her knee? Did she prefer a firmer or softer touch as he let his fingers drift up her inner thighs to the sweet, warm welcome that beckoned him even now? Just the thought of seeing her there, _touching _her there, made his cock jerk in his pants. Did she like to tease and laugh in bed as he suspected she might? Would their joining be wild and animalistic or sweet and tender? Edward thought it would be both.

He moved to the stereo and turned it on, not even paying attention to the music. It had been Isabella's choice and Edward usually found himself listening to whatever Isabella had chosen. It reminded him of her, made him feel as if she was there even when she wasn't. If he was in the kitchen, he could pretend that she was merely waiting in the living room, swaying to the beat of whatever music was playing.

For once, Isabella looked uncertain and shy and Edward decided he didn't like that. Isabella should always look as he saw her – confident and sure of her place in the world. Her place in the world was at the center of his. And until she told him otherwise, he was going to remain close to her.

"Dance with me," he whispered, taking her hand. She gave him a nervous smile but fitted herself into his embrace as if they had been doing this for a thousand years.

They moved to the beat of the music, a soft jazz number with no words to distract them. He moved his lips to her ear and kissed the elegant curve of it. She rested her head on his chest and there was no urgency in their movements. They simply swayed with each other and the music and the world was reduced to those three elements. Finally, she lifted her head and her eyes focused on his lips while she pursed her own.

"Kiss me again," she asked quietly.

His mouth lowered to hers and they both groaned at the contact. His hands traced down her sides and then moved around to settle on her hips, his fingertips resting comfortably on the swell of her ass. He longed to rub against her, to show her what she did to him. Instead, he simply moved with her, though his need twitched against her belly. Surely she felt it, but instead of moving away in repulsion, she merely nestled up closer, sort of cradling it with her softer flesh – embracing his desire as she had so often embraced him.

"How did we find each other, Edward Cullen?" she asked after the song ended, her head resting on his shoulder.

"I thought you would say it's fate," he teased gently. It was still such a new thing to tease with such gentle good humor.

"It _is_ fate," she insisted. "But I mean, how did we get so lucky to have _this _fate? To find each other? Now, when we're ready for whatever it is this..._thing_ between us will be?" She looked up at me again, her expression both solemn and curious.

"Maybe fate felt it owed us both something," he pointed out, unable to help himself from brushing his thumb along the plump lines of her lips. "For however long it lasts, we should make the most of it."

She frowned at him. "For however long it lasts?" There was a sharpness to her tone that unsettled him and he stopped moving in time to the music. The music disappeared as far as he was concerned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He found he couldn't meet her eyes. He didn't want to confess his shameful secrets. "I'm...I'm not a good person, Isabella."

She leaned back and studied him; he looked at her from beneath his lashes. Her eyes were large and dark and mesmerizing. Finally, his lashes fluttered up and their eyes met. "Edward?"

That was it. Just his name. "Yes?" he finally asked.

"You're full of shit," she said bluntly.

He almost smiled, but he shook his head instead. "No, I'm not."

She tugged on his ear until it was near her mouth. "Listen to me, Edward Cullen. If you never listen to anything else I tell you, listen to this...and _believe _it." She took a deep breath. "I'm not sure why you think you're not a good person. Frankly, I don't think any of your friends would know why either." He started to protest and she gave his ear a light tug that shut him up fast. "Even if they knew what your father had done, they wouldn't care. Not if they were_ real_ friends. You, Edward Cullen, you are a good man. You're loyal and brave and giving. If I had all night I couldn't possibly list all of your good qualities. So if you want me to believe that every instinct I have is absolutely wrong, then it's going to take a lot of evidence to make your case." She released his ear and took a step back and then poked him hard in the chest. "Got it?"

"Yes," he said, but honesty compelled him to say more. "But you are wrong. I'm not a good person, Isabella."

"Because of what your father did?" Her expression was fierce and Edward felt himself taking a step backward.

"No...yes... It's hard to explain." He sighed his frustration.

"Then I guess you'd better get started," Isabella ordered. "Because for a night that started out so promising, this one is turning into a real shit fest." He blinked at the obscenity.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

"For what?"

"For the...shit fest." His eyes darted up to hers.

"Apology not accepted," she said.

"Please?"

"Pleas what?" Isabella countered.

"Please forgive me for the shit fest?" he pleaded, though he rather thought he should apologize for being who he was. _What_ he was.

"No," she replied sternly. When he began to protest, she shook her head and held up her hand. "But...I will give you the chance to redeem yourself."

He felt some of the tension leave him.

"However," she added. "I think this little talk is going to require something more comfortable than your couch."

And with that, she took him by the hand and led him into his bedroom. He felt his body tighten and surge at the knowledge they would be in his room, in his bed? He hoped. He followed like an obedient, chastened child. When they got there, she pushed him inside with a gentle shove. He stood there uncertainly. If it had been any other Friday night, and he had not been in his own bedroom but in a hotel room, he would have known what to do. He had choreographed that dance years ago.

He would have urged her to walk toward the bed, and while she was still facing away from him, he would walked up behind her and pressed his cock into her backside at the same time his hands came up and caressed her breasts. He found breasts fascinating, they were all so different. Some were heavy weights in his hands that brought to mind vivid images of ripe fruits. Others were slighter weights that nestled lightly, as if they were birds prepared to take flight. He loved them all. Their silken skin, the way nipples pressed impudently into his palms, the sweet taste of that first lick and suckle. After removing a woman's top, Edward found a reverent joy in worshipping their breasts for the first time, knowing with certainty that there would never a next.

But tonight he was at a loss, uncertain and unhinged. Isabella's voice cut through the anxiety.

"Get undressed, just leave on your boxers and a tee-shirt if you're cold," she ordered, but her voice was gentle and tender and he was obeying her before he could consider doing otherwise.

At the same time, she was tugging off her own clothes, but before he could catch a glimpse of anything he had not seen before, she was putting one of his tee-shirts on over her bra. A few seconds later, the lacy concoction was slipping out through one of the armholes of the shirt. Women were amazing creatures, he thought with sudden incredulity. So wonderfully different from men.

"Go brush your teeth and do whatever else you need to do," she said quietly. She left the room and when he emerged from the bathroom a few moments later, she had a toothbrush in her hand. "I'll be in bed in a second. Just get in on your side."

He still hadn't made any word of protest, and he pondered doing just that. Instead, he pulled back the covers and climbed dutifully beneath them and pulled them up.

And waited.

He didn't have to wait long. Soon, Isabella was sliding beneath the covers as well. She plumped up her pillows and got comfortable before she turned to him. Then she smiled sweetly, tenderly and reached out to touch him. "My sweet, sweet man," she murmured and for a wild moment Edward wondered who she might be talking about. "Come here," she pleaded.

Without thought, he was slipping into her embrace. Her slender arms came up around him and he was pillowed on her body. Her warmth, her scent, her presence surrounded him. He was drifting on the warmest ocean, embraced by serenity – nothing could touch him while he rested in Isabella's arms. Nothing. No one. Even the monster inside was helpless before her power. Held by her, bound by her acceptance, he was free.

Her hands then began a soothing pattern of moving up and down his back, her touch light but certain, just firm enough not to be ticklish. "When I was six," Isabella said quietly. "My mother took me to Disney World." Edward closed his eyes and let the sound of Isabella's voice become his world. "I'd never seen anything like it, of course. And my mom was as much a kid as I was, so it was like seeing it for the first time with my best friend, who just happened to be a grown up so I felt completely safe." Isabella sighed. "The lines were long that day; it was just before school started, so I was getting ready to turn seven. I remember worrying about who my teacher would be next year and if he or she would like me and if I would like them." Isabella hugged him close.

"Then, I turned around to tell my mother something and I realized that I had lost her. I was alone." Beside him, Edward felt Isabella tremble and he knew she was experiencing that terror of being completely alone all over again. "I couldn't even yell for her for a moment," Isabella confessed. "I could barely breathe. I had an ice cream in my hands and I can still hear the plopping sound when I dropped it."

He hugged her as hard as she hugged him.

"I remember looking in every direction, trying to find a pair of legs that looked right, the right color shorts..._anything_..." He felt her press a kiss to the top of his head. "And I remember thinking that I could wander around a place as big as Disney World forever before someone found me." She laughed softly. "I was convinced I'd be like one of those kids on Peter Pan's island...lost for good...forever a child because you couldn't _grow up_ in Disney, you see."

There was a long moment of silence.

"Then...then I felt something crushing me, and I started to cry then, really cry, not just let tears slip down my cheeks or anything but full on sobbing," Isabella continued. "Arms turned me around and I saw my mother, even through the tears, I knew it was her. She hugged me so tight that it hurt and I couldn't breathe. But I didn't care, because I'd never felt safer and happier...ever. I had...come home, I guess. I had been _found_. I wasn't alone any more."

Her slim fingers were tilting up his chin so that he could look at her. Her eyes were dark pools of some emotion he could not identify. Then her hands were cradling his face and her lips were pressed briefly against his. "When you kissed me tonight, Edward, when you kissed me, I felt the same way."

He could only stare at her.

"So you're going to have to learn to deal with being my knight in shining armor. I'll give you time to get used to it, but we _will_ eventually have to confront your view of yourself. So you might as well pull up your big boy pants and deal with it all...me, saving me, realizing how wonderful you really are...because it's going to happen. I don't care how long it takes, Edward. I don't care how hard it gets. I won't leave you and I won't give up on you. But most of all, I won't let you give up on yourself."

Then she closed her eyes and pulled him close again. "Go to sleep now, Edward. You look tired."

He held himself stiffly against her for a moment and then closed his eyes too. He slept.


	10. Chapter 10

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

_**Author's Note: In this chapter, we get more insight into why Edward believes he's a monster. Please be patient with him. He's really trying very hard to get things worked out in his pretty little head, lol. This update is early. I got it written before I thought I would and I'm an impatient soul, so here it is.**_

**Chapter 10**

"_**Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear." ~Ambrose Redmoon**_

He woke up nestled next to Isabella scented flesh, soft and sleep warm. He refused to open his eyes for a moment, preferring to savor the sublime feeling of being surrounded by Isabella. Then he felt her hand stroking his hair. "Good morning, Sir Edward," she murmured.

That made him open his eyes and she laughed softly at the confusion in his expression. Her lips quirked. "You're my knight in shining armor...remember?"

That concept was still so foreign to him that he had to look away. He was not the knight, but the evil wizard. He just didn't know how to convince her of that. She kissed his forehead. "Go do whatever it you knights do in the morning," she suggested with a little laugh. "I'll get some breakfast ready for us."

With that, she slid from the bed. He was shocked at how empty it already felt. But he moved quickly to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. Though his cock was hard and aching, he did not touch it. There would be something profane about stroking himself to an unsatisfactory satisfaction with Isabella in his home. So when he dried himself off, his flesh was still heavy and hurting.

He had dressed in a pair of shorts and a clean tee-shirt when Isabella opened the door, a tray of food balanced easily in her hand, looking very professional and at ease. She must have noticed his expression. "What?" she asked with a shrug. "I was a server during college. It was good money and I could work as little or as much as I needed." Then she settled the tray on the bedside table with a flourish. She was quite graceful as she did so, Edward noted with dazed admiration.

"Now we're going to have breakfast in bed," she announced. "I can't face heavy discussions on an empty stomach."

"Heavy discussions?" He didn't like the sound of that.

Isabella settled on her side of the bed and patted the mattress beside her. "Sit. Eat. Then talk."

"Talk?" he asked even as he sat down.

"You're not a morning person, are you?" Isabella guessed with a hint of sly amusement.

Before he could reply, Isabella popped a bit of bacon into his mouth. He chewed obediently and watched as Isabella slathered grape jelly on her toast. He was going to ask her what they were going to talk about when she ripped off a piece of toast and slipped that between his teeth. "Eat," she urged again.

That was how the whole breakfast went. He would open his mouth to speak and find food in it. He would chew and swallow and try again, only to fail. Isabella somehow managed to finish her own breakfast while determinedly feeding him. The tray was quickly cleared of food and Edward had a full stomach.

Isabella moved back so that she was sitting against the headboard and she studied him until he fidgeted. "What?" he asked, wiping at his face.

"I'm trying to decide," Isabella murmured.

"Decide?" Sometimes Edward had trouble following Isabella's train of thought.

She scooted closer. Then her lips were against his ear. "I'm trying to decide if we should talk first..."

"Or?" He asked the unspoken question.

"Or..." Her fingers trailed down his chest and then settled on his stomach.

"Or if we should kiss and touch other each other first," she answered in a distracted voice. "You're so...delicious." And with that she licked her lips. His dick jerked in response and she grinned at him, seeing the obvious movement beneath his thin shorts.

The she was straddling him and leaning in for a kiss. It started off sweet and innocent, their lips merely pressing against each other's. Then her tongue slid in between his lips and teeth and began a leisurely exploration of his mouth. Somehow, his shirt was pushed up, leaving his chest and stomach bare. Isabella's heat scorched him through the thin, silky fabric of her panties.

Her hips took up a languid, rocking rhythm and he settled his hands on her ass, giving her the lead. She positioned herself right over his cock, giving him the most wonderfully frustrating friction. In contrast to the almost frantic motion of her hips, her mouth was slow and easy on his. She tasted of bacon and grape jelly and Isabella.

When Edward began thrusting up into her softness, mimicking the final completion for which they both longed, Isabella pulled away from his mouth with a little sigh and her hips went motionless. He gave a little whimper of protest. She brushed back his hair and smiled tenderly. "I wish you could see yourself as I see you," she murmured.

"You don't see the real me," he told her solemnly, believing every word.

Her smile grew sad then and she shook her head. "You're the one who is blind, Edward. But I can teach you to see, and I will." She kissed him. "I've got eyes enough for both of us right now."

"Isabella..." he whispered.

"Bella," she breathed, settling her lips on his once more and then she pulled back a fraction of an inch. "I want you to call me Bella when you're moving inside of me."

His brain went blank and for a moment he almost let himself do exactly that. But Isabella had to know the truth. She had to see him for what he was. And if that meant he lost her – as it surely would – then he would grieve for the rest of his days but that was his pain to bear and not hers. Isabella deserved better than a monster, better than what he was. This..._thing_ between them could go no further until she knew what she was getting.

"No," he said softly. "I..."

She leaned back. "Why do you think you're so terrible, Edward?"

He couldn't meet her eyes. "I just...know."

"Look at me while you lie to me," she ordered in a cool voice. His eyes darted up to hers, expecting anger but there was only sadness and something that made him want to blurt out the horrible truth and test the boundaries of her forgiveness.

"I _know_," he insisted.

"I don't believe that," she said, trying to slide off of him. But he held on tightly, shaking his head.

"I'm bad, Isabella. I know I am, and you need to know it too."

"What makes you say that, Edward?" He could hear her frustration. He sighed and slid from beneath her.

"Let's go to the living room," he said, holding out his hand. He could not reveal his secret shame in this bed, the one where he had hoped to make love to her. "I want to tell you something. Something about...that night."

She took his hand and let him lead her to the couch. They sat down and he took a deep breath.

"Do you really want to talk about it?" Isabella asked quietly.

Edward shook his head desperately, but even as he did so, the words began spilling from his lips. It was as if Isabella Swan was a force of nature, and he was merely the hapless bit of earth upon which she had struck. She would do to him what she would and he could no more stop her than he could an earthquake or a hurricane. And as much as he didn't want to show her what he was, he had to. He owed her that much at least.

"It was warm but not hot yet," he said. "It was early spring, but I had my window open because..." He flashed her an apologetic smile. "If the air had been on, I wouldn't have heard anything." Often he had pondered how his life had been transformed simply because of weather. If he hadn't heard, if he hadn't gone to the studio, he might have grown up with the monster that had sired him and never known...

Isabella nodded. Until this moment, sitting here with this intriguing, sometimes infuriating but always incredible woman, Edward had not realized just how much he had needed this, how he had longed to wanted to reach out to someone. Though a part of him feared that she would turn away from him in disgust, he would take this moment, even if she could no longer look at him or bear his touch when he was done. What she had given him already was a gift beyond measure.

"_He_ told me that she...my mother, had gone to visit her sister," Edward continued. "I thought it was funny, _odd_ funny not ha-ha funny, because usually I went with her when she went to see Aunt Esme. But my...he said that they had had an argument and she went to cool off."

Isabella's hand slipped into his and tightened reassuringly.

"I heard..._something_ that didn't belong," Edward said after a long pause. "And I got out of bed and went downstairs. I didn't hear the sound again, but I knew where it had come from." He closed his eyes and he was once more that boy, standing at the top of the porch stairs, one foot on the stair, one foot on the porch, balanced on a precipice. "My father's studio was forbidden," he said. "I wasn't to go there, not even when he wasn't working. Unless he invited me in, that was the one place I wasn't allowed to go."

His father had been a sculptor and photographer, quite well known in certain circles. Though of course Edward Masen Senior had no need to make money from his work, a healthy trust fund had left him financially independent. But he had enjoyed working in his studio, or so he said. He had worked with mostly metal in his sculptures and Edward had been used to seeing the saws and tin snips and gleaming blades in his father's studio. The very things that Edward had seen as creators of beauty, his father had seen as tools of death and destruction. Of course, his father found beauty in their agony and suffering. He considered their misery his greatest creation.

"My mother hadn't gone to my aunt's house," Edward finally said. No matter how easily the words about his father tumbled from his mouth, his mother's memory was still so sacred that it felt like sandpaper had lined his throat to speak of her.

When young Edward walked in the room that stank of fear and blood, his mother had been still breathing, though she had been bound to a workbench and her husband had already begun his "work" on her. She was alone for the moment. Edward Masen senior had gone to another room to fetch yet another tool of torture. He believed in precision and in using the right implement for the job.

_Run, Edward. Run..._

"She told me to run," Edward said. "But I couldn't...I was...frozen there...and then I was...trying to untie her...trying so hard...but I couldn't..." He took a deep, rasping breath, feeling once more that panic as his clumsy hands had tugged so desperately at her bonds, the ropes slippery with her blood. _Run, Edward... _He had been so afraid, and he had wanted to run. So badly...but he couldn't leave his mother there, dying alone at the hands of the monster, her blood falling with soft little plops of sound to the concrete floor.

He met Isabella's eyes, knowing that if he saw pity there he just might lose his mind. Instead, there was nothing but compassion...and infinite patience.

"You want a beer?" Isabella asked suddenly. "I do." She knew that he needed a moment, perhaps she needed one too.

She shot to her feet and soon returned with two bottles of beer. She handed him one. As if sensing that he could go on no longer, like she had peered into his mind and read his thoughts, Isabella sank to the couch and tipped the bottle back. "You know what I remember most about the last time I saw my mother?"

Edward shook his head helplessly.

Isabella gave a sad little smile. "I was mad at her because she was making me go see my father. I hated going to Forks, but it was my father's visitation time and I was giving her shit about going."

_...run, baby...he's...bad..._

"Her husband, Phil, was okay," Isabella continued. "But my mom and I were close and I didn't want to go to Forks. I loved my dad, of course, but..." Isabella shrugged. "I hated the rain and the lack of sun and the boredom."

_Run, Edward...run..._

"So I yelled at her," she said, looking at the picture. "She was going to the grocery store to get the stuff to make cookies that I wanted and I yelled at her and slammed my bedroom door." Isabella looked at Edward. "I told her if she loved me she wouldn't make me go."

_Run, Edward..._

"And then she didn't come home from the grocery store," Isabella said softly.

_Run..._

The reign of terror had begun, though no one yet suspected it. At first, the police just had a missing woman. Renee Dwyer had had a flighty reputation; no one would have been much surprised if she took an impromptu trip to Las Vegas...or Australia. It had taken a while for the police to even be bothered. Edward remembered seeing her picture in the paper, but only after it his father's horror was revealed.

After Renee's body was found, there were other pictures of bright smiling faces of women who were already dead.

And the stories of the bodies that were found.

And the conjecture over the identity of the killer in their midst.

His mother had fretted over it, murmured her sympathy, unaware that she would soon share their fate or that she slept alongside the monster. All that winter and into the spring and summer beyond, the killings had continued. Women disappeared, only to turn up days or weeks later as a decomposing corpse, the marks of their suffering still upon them.

Edward and his mother had lived peacefully with the monster. His mother had cooked for him, admired his work, she had lain under him. Edward had heard them fucking and it had embarrassed him, but not horrified him. The next morning, his father would always be in a jovial mood and his mother would shoot her husband sly smiles that spoke of secrets that only they shared. Edward supposed that all children, once they were old enough to know what was going on behind closed doors, experienced the mild sense of dismay that he had had. Even now, he could not bear to think of his father's dirty hands touching his mother's flesh, pretending an affection that was not real. But at the time, it had merely been an embarrassment.

It would only be later that he would want to vomit at the thought of his father invading his mother's body with that profane bit of flesh he had used to violate the women he killed. Not content with taking their lives, Edward Masen had taken everything – their innocence, their sanity, their souls.

His father was a black hole into which all things good and righteous disappeared, never to be seen again.

He looked at Isabella, so optimistic about life in spite of what the monster had done to her. "She told me to run, Isabella," he said quietly. "But I couldn't leave her..."

Isabella went still and she moved to him, enfolding him in her arms as if he was the boy he had been on that warm spring night. "He had tied her too tightly...and the blood...it made the rope slippery...so f_ucking_ slippery..." Once again, he was rocked by that same hopeless rage.

Her hands smoothed his hair and she rocked slightly, not saying anything but murmuring soothing nothings. "She kept telling me to run."

He found himself folding his body so that he was half sprawled in her lap and she held him closely.

"And then..." Edward took a deep breath. "I heard him."

He looked up at Isabella. "He was behind me, and he saw me..."

He had never told anyone of everything that had passed between them on that night. No one knew everything that his father had said to him, not even Aunt Esme. Only his mother had known his shame, and she had died on that workbench, still bound and bleeding while her son struggled and fought and almost died with her. He had never told anyone because if he had, they would have seen the stain too clearly. They would have seen the monster lurking beneath his skin.

He wasn't sure why he was going to tell Isabella now, but he knew that he was. Something deep inside of him compelled him to do so, even if it ruined whatever absolution she had granted him thus far.

"He had gone to get another knife," Edward said. "Something to flay the skin, he told me..." He shuddered and Isabella held him closer. Her fingers pressed against his lips, letting him know that he didn't have to share what he didn't want to.

His father had been shocked to se him standing there, his hands stained with his mother's blood from his struggles to free her. Edward had been shocked at what happened next.

"He laughed," Edward said. "He laughed when he saw me."

He felt Isabella go still. Perhaps she sensed what he would say next with that uncanny instinct of hers. "He...he...held out the knife and asked if I wanted to have a go at it too..."

Isabella moaned low in her throat. "Oh my God..." she whispered and he expected her to pull away from him in disgust and terror. Instead, her arms tightened around him and she pressed kisses to his sweaty hair. Then she was tilting up his face so that she could look into his eyes. "I'm so sorry," she murmured.

"He said I was_ his_ son, his seed...that I had the darkness in me too...that I only had to give into it, that I could feel it too...and that it was wonderful..." Edward shuddered and clutched at Isabella. "He saw it in me, that horrible sickness...I'm bad, Isabella. I'm his son, I carry his blood...I'm bad..." And his secret shame tumbled out of him in disjointed words and muffled sobs.

"Hush now," she said emphatically. "No more of that shit." She was a strange mixture of comfort and admonishment.

He blinked at her and she smiled slightly, brushing his hair back and it felt too good for him to even feel shame that he was accepting her comfort. He, who least deserved it but most wanted it.

"He wanted you to be like him, but that doesn't make it so," Isabella said. "_He_ wanted it, not you."

Edward shook his head. "No, I'm like him. I know I am."

"You're going to make me kick your ass, Edward," Isabella said matter-of-factly. "Listen to me..." She tilted his face up and pierced him with her eyes, making him blink and stare at her. "Your father...that sickness inside of him, it was there for a very long time. I've read the case history, Edward. There were mutilated animals when he was a kid, but nobody wanted to admit there was a problem. Later, there were incidences that were hushed up because he came from money, from a good family. And for a while, he tried to be...normal. Your mother calmed him for a while. But...he...he was...an evil, evil person, Edward. But that was him, not you."

"I'm his son," Edward insisted.

"You are your mother's son," Isabella persisted. "Your _mother's_ son. Elizabeth's son. Everything you are, everything you did – it proves that beyond any doubt. If you were the monster your father was, you would have taken that knife from your father's hand and used it to hurt an innocent. But you didn't, did you?"

He paused and shook his head. Everything in him had recoiled from the pristine knife his father had offered. But every time he fucked a woman, every time he touched her silken flesh, some part of him waited for that sick urge to cut and maim and bite and hurt and destroy to rouse to life inside of him. It never had, but Edward had been waiting...and waiting...

"Instead, you stopped him, Edward. You stopped the monster because_ you_ aren't a monster."

"I'm his son," he said again, but even he recognized that his argument was growing weaker.

"You hurt him, Edward. You hurt him enough to stop him, to slow him down," Isabella murmured. "The police came...do you remember that? A neighbor heard you yelling, Edward. And they called the cops. You almost died stopping him that night. You almost gave your life for all of the women who would have come after. You looked him straight in the eyes in that courtroom and it was your testimony more than anything that put him away. He was stopped...by you, Edward. Only you."

He looked at her, so desperate for absolution that he thought he would be happy to beg for the rest of his life. Yet, here she was, offering it so freely and sweetly that he wasn't quite sure she was real.

"You, Edward Cullen, are an angel...an avenging angel sent to save all of those women your father would have killed...sent to save me..."

And then her lips pressed to his, chastely, sweetly, softly...hardly there, yet filling up his world. He wanted to believe. He wanted so desperately to believe.


	11. Chapter 11

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

_**Author's Note: There were some continuity errors in the last chapter, which I have corrected. Thank you for letting me know. That never offends me, in fact, I'm grateful. That is what happens when you write scenes out of order, as that scene was supposed to take place somewhere else in the story and I didn't like the way it fit. So...it's correct now and thank you. You all are the best, I mean it!**_

**Chapter 11**

"_**Once you choose hope, anything's possible." ~Christopher Reeve**_

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

Isabella simply held him. Later on, he was never quite sure just how long she sat there, her arms a comforting, warm weight around him. She didn't speak, but her caresses and touches spoke volumes. Eventually, he settled against her with an exhausted sigh. Then he slept again.

She held him until he woke up, though he noticed that when he shifted and she moved at last, Isabella grimaced at the protest her muscles had to have been making. Immediately, Edward felt remorse of having been so inconsiderate.

"Let's go make some lunch," Isabella said, getting stiffly to her feet and pulling him up from the couch.

They worked together well in the kitchen, their moves practically choreographed by now and comfortable in their silence. Edward always found these moments to be strangely rejuvenating. In some ways, such moments brought to mind his mother and how they had often worked together in the kitchen. Edward had liked cooking and baking, though his father had never been pleased to see Edward so happy doing such domestic and, in his eyes, inherently feminine, tasks. As Edward had gotten older, he had learned that the sight of him baking a pie with his mother or perfecting a marinara recipe had annoyed his father. Slowly, he had stopped doing so, more because of the tension it caused between his parents than out of any fear of his father.

It wasn't until Isabella had come into his life that Edward had recalled those moments, or the reasons they had stopped. Now, for the first time, Edward wondered if there was something more significant in those hours he had spent with his mother. _Was_ he more like his mother than his father? And was his mother's blood enough to counterbalance the monster that inevitably lurked inside?

They ate grilled cheese sandwiches and homemade French fries. The sound of the potatoes in the sizzling grease was the only sound in the little kitchen, but Edward was content. He was well rested, the smell of good food filled his head, and best of all, Isabella was still here. She hadn't run away screaming even though she knew the ugly truth about him.

After they ate, they cleaned up their small mess and once again, Isabella took him by the hand. This time she led him into his bathroom and she turned on the shower. He judged the water to be just short of boiling, but he would endure it for her. Slowly, tenderly, she stripped him out of his few clothes and then silently removed her own. She entered the shower and pulled him in behind her.

Edward hissed as the hot water hit his skin, but after a few moments, he adjusted to the temperature. Isabella seemed to be reveling in the heat and he had to smile at the way she closed her eyes and luxuriated under the steaming spray, turning this way and that so that every inch of her body was soon pink and warm.

He ached to touch her.

Abruptly, her eyes opened and she smiled. She reached for his hand and placed it on her belly. "Your hands always feel so good," she whispered. "Touch me more."

Permission having been given, Edward was helpless to resist. His other hand came forward to gently cup one breast and they both moaned softly at the contact. Her breast was a delightful weight in his hand, warm and heavy and pink and soft. So very soft. His thumb flicked lightly over one nipple and she arched into his touch.

Strangely, there was no urgency to his touches or to her responses. They were in no hurry, though their need was great. Slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers and she opened her lips, welcoming him in with a sigh of satisfaction. Edward groaned and pulled her up against him. His dick was pressed between them, hard and aching and already seeping with his pleasure.

Isabella's hands came around and cupped his ass, instinctively pushing him closer against her. They moved against each other, their flesh slick and hungry. Edward squeezed gently at Isabella's breast and her hips expressed her appreciation of the move. Without thought, Edward moved forward, urging Isabella to move back against the shower wall, which she did without hesitation or protest. He felt her shiver slightly at the sensation of the cool tiles against her overheated flesh and he moaned his apology.

Then his mouth left hers, prompting a protest that died a quick death when his mouth traveled down her throat. He bent so that he could bring her hard nipple into his eager mouth and Isabella's cry was loud in the small confines of the shower. The sound of it made him even harder, though he wouldn't have thought such a thing possible.

One of her legs came up to wrap around his hip and it was the most natural thing in the world for them to thrust against each other, bringing him tantalizingly close to slipping inside of her. Apart from the shower, he was aware of the moisture that was gathering between her legs, a response that told him her murmured approval was genuine. His fingers were met with slick, welcoming heat.

It would have been so easy to make one tiny adjustment and thrust up into the haven that beckoned him.

But Edward had never fucked without a condom and he didn't intend to start now, with the most important woman in the world. He could not sully her perfect body with the filth that lingered in his seed. He would have her, they both knew that, but he would protect her too.

"Wait," he said in a shaky voice. "I don't have...my condoms...in the bedroom..." His words were disjointed and tremulous, but she understood.

"I'm on the shot," Isabella explained. "I'm clean. Are you?"

"Yes, but-" The question was a reminder of everything Edward wanted to forget. Was he clean? Of sexual diseases, yes. But his heart and his mind were not. He had been twisted before he was born, at conception the monster had taken root in him, existing in every cell of his body. "Not without a condom," he finally managed to choke out.

Isabella pulled back too, though with her back against the shower it was more difficult. She studied him carefully, as if sensing all the words he was not saying and peering into the deepest recesses of his heart and mind. He was laid bare before her, as always. Her eyes narrowed as if she had guessed at his reasons, but after a moment's pause, she gave a jerky nod.

She turned and raised her face to the water, leaving him panting behind her, his hands literally aching to grab her hips as he buried himself deep within her, balls deep and bare.

After she washed her hair, she tugged him under the spray of water and rubbed his hair as she washed it, asking him quietly to bend forward to make it easier. When she was done, she tenderly washed his body and then urged him out of the shower. When she moved to dry him off, he plucked the towel from her hands and ministered to her, savoring the intimacy and affection of the act. Then she returned the favor and he closed his eyes to more fully appreciate the warmth.

When they were both wrapped in towels, she smiled. "I want you to make love to me, Edward." He had never expected such a blunt statement, though perhaps he should have, he realized. Isabella was always surprising him.

Surprises weren't always a bad thing, he had come to discover.

"I want that too," he told her. But inside, he was unsure. What if he was incapable of making love? What if all his heart and body could do was fuck? Isabella deserved more than a fuck. But he was given no chance to argue his point because the next thing he knew, he was standing beside his bed, covered in Isabella scented sheets.

The towel dropped from her body and he felt his breath catch in his throat and lungs. Still pink and warm from their shower, her flesh glowed invitingly. He wanted to touch her.

So he did.

He wanted to kiss her.

So he did.

He wanted to see her dark hair spread about on his pillow and so he whispered his desire. A moment later, she fulfilled that humble wish and Edward felt his heart expand inside his chest. "I want you inside of me," Isabella murmured and held up her arms, inviting him into her embrace.

He accepted the invitation.

Their bodies moved together as fluidly in the bed as they had in the shower. Edward kissed and suckled and gave playful nips that had Isabella arching and hissing and moaning and laughing. Sex and laughter had never gone together in Edward's experience. In all of his previous encounters, he had been chasing a simple physical release.

Now, however, there was more than laughter. There was mutual affection and trust, and a guard was lowered inside of him because this was the first woman who had ever truly _known_ him. By the time he was reaching into the bedside drawer, his fingers scrambling to find a condom, he realized that he had never ached so badly for a woman.

Isabella's eager hands slid the condom down his throbbing length and they both groaned at the caress. He positioned the head against her, feeling her heat and remembering the silky feel of her response. He moved to push inside of her, but she shook her head and pressed her hands against his shoulders.

He stared at her in disbelief, but the smile on her kiss swollen lips was teasing. "Remember...?"

She must have seen the confusion on his face because she gave a little laugh. "Call me Bella," she reminded him. "Call me Bella while you're inside of me."

Her words and the feel of her almost had him coming then and there. He groaned and buried his face in the fragrant flesh of her neck. "Bella...Bella...Bella..." he breathed and then pushed inside of her.

They both cried out and he stilled for a moment, overcome with how different it felt to be inside of _her_. Her heels came up to drum lightly on his ass, reminding him to move and he laughed, which only made him slip farther inside of her. They both gasped and then moved experimentally against each other.

A few awkward thrusts and they found it, the perfect rhythm that had his hips pumping and hers answering. "Bella," he whispered reverently. "My Bella..." One shaking hand came up to brush a thumb across her lips. She nipped at it playfully and then sucked it into her mouth. Inside of her, his cock jumped and swelled and she groaned as she felt it.

Her hands grabbed at his shoulders then, her nails lightly scoring his flesh. It was a tiny pain, titillating rather than distracting. Her back arched off the bed and he watched in fascination as her eyes closed and the beautiful flush bloomed on her chest, lightly kissing her breasts with more color.

He felt her body fluttering around him, gently begging for his answering orgasm. He could not deny her. Anything. Ever.

With a shout of surprise and satisfaction, he thrust in deep, his balls drawing up tight as he pumped and pumped and pumped into the condom. It never seemed to end, but at least, he collapsed against her. "Bella," he whispered. Now that he had said her name while his body was inside of hers, he could not say it enough. "My Bella..."

"Your Bella," she answered, holding him close. "Always your Bella."

_**~Bad Blood~**_

They didn't fuck twice. In fact, Edward was pretty sure they hadn't even fucked once. What they had done felt different. Better, most definitely, but also unique in a way he could not describe. They got up and watched a movie for a while, touching casually and then not so casually.

With someone else, it might have led to using another condom. But with Bella, it led to something even more satisfying in its own way. They ended up back in his bed, wrapped around each other like pretzels, not saying much with words but everything with their bodies.

Eventually, they dozed and then woke again, kissing and caressing and whispering encouragement to each other. When she turned and pressed her back to his chest, it was the most natural thing in the world to pull her leg up to rest on his hip and slide inside of her – slow and steady. "Bella, my Bella," he whispered as he moved inside of her. The words were a prayer. A hope. A plea.

"Your Bella," she answered him once and then gave a little cry when he picked up the pace in response to her words.

Edward did not forget to use a condom, but this time Isabella didn't question it. He had a feeling, after they were sated and panting in each other's arms and he had tossed the condom in the trash can near his bed, that the day would come when he would have to explain.

And he would, fully and as honestly was he was capable of doing. Because this was Isabella, and with her, he would always be truthful.

By that time, night had fallen yet again and they had stumbled into the kitchen for sustenance, laughing as they made a mess of omelets and toast. Then, by unspoken agreement, they were back in his bed. Somehow, Edward had gotten two nights with her. Clothes were not an issue as neither of them was often dressed. An extra toothbrush had solved the only other practical problem, so they were free to indulge in their whims.

"Edward?" Isabella's voice was soft in the darkness.

"Yes?" He let his fingers run up and down her arm.

"That night..." She let her words trail off and he lightly caressed her to let her know that it was okay to continue. She sighed and he felt the breath. "That night...when your father offered you the knife?"

"Yes?"

He felt her turn, and in the darkness he could not see her eyes but he felt her gaze on him. "I know you're convinced that your father saw this monster inside of you, that he was sure you'd be what he was."

Edward waited, trembling.

"But when you told me about that night, when you told me what your father said and did, you never said anything about what your _mother_ did when your father offered you the knife." The words filled up the darkness, and filled up Edward. Suddenly, he was questioning everything he ever _knew_ about himself.

Isabella continued on, determined to have her say. "Did she seem afraid of you? Did she seem to think that you'd be what your father was?" There was a pause, which Isabella read correctly as she always did. "I think your mother knew you weren't capable of that. I don't think she was ever afraid of you, Edward. And who knew you better than your mother?"

"_Run, Edward, run..."_

_His father pressing the knife toward him, urging him to take it, to continue in his stead, father and son..._

_He had caught only a glimpse of his mother's face at that moment, but there hadn't been fear of him in her eyes. She had feared for him certainly, tears silently slipping down her cheeks, washing away the blood, cleansing her for just a moment of the pain. A mother's fear that ran strong and deep._

"_Run, Edward...run..."_

Isabella's lips pressed against his cool cheek. "Go to sleep, Edward. We have a long day tomorrow – and you have to work." Work seemed a million miles away.

Then she slipped more deeply into his embrace and he felt her body go heavy with sleep. Isabella's trust in him was complete and overwhelming.

"_I don't think she was ever afraid of you, Edward. And who knew you better than your mother?"_

Edward closed his eyes, letting the anguish and the hope battle against each other.


	12. Chapter 12

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

**Chapter 12**

"_**Happiness is a form of courage." ~Holbrook Jackson**_

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

It was not easy getting up that morning at his usual Monday morning time. In fact, he had the unusual urge to bury his face in his pillow and plead for five more minutes. Or even better, bury his face in the soft scent of Isabella's hair and plead for all day. In any case, he stifled the urge and turned off his alarm. Though he did remain in the bed for a while and study Isabella while she slept. Apparently, she could sleep through just about anything. Then he reached out to touch her and a sly smile tugged at her lips.

"Faker," he accused.

She opened her eyes. "I like being in bed with you," she replied simply. "I didn't want it to end."

What could a man say in response to that? "Will I see you tonight?" he asked.

Isabella scooted closer and nestled herself against him, her hair tickling his chin. "Do you _want_ to see me tonight?"

"Oh, Isabella, I always want to see you," Edward admitted. He decided that being around Isabella made him shockingly honest. He coveted Isabella. He wanted her with every fiber of his being. That wasn't the scariest part of it, however. The most terrifying thing was the realization that he would tell her so without hesitation.

Isabella giggled and sat up, her hair a wild mass around her that somehow managed to make her look even more beautiful. "Then you'll see me," she promised playfully. She leaned down and kissed him quickly and he discovered that morning breath really wasn't so bad. "Go shower, Mr. Cullen, while I make us some breakfast. I think I'm going to skip the gym this morning. I need to get home and make sure Floyd is still alive."

Floyd was a spider plant and had the distinction of being the only plant Isabella hadn't managed to love to death. She insisted that she had a black thumb, and Edward conceded that her history might indicate she was right. So Floyd understandably held a place of pride in her heart.

Edward wondered what it said about him that he was jealous of a plant.

His shower was quick and perfunctory. His flesh was sated and, for once, his mind was at ease. When he walked out of the bedroom, he could hear Isabella singing in the kitchen, rather badly if he was honest.

"Let's get physical...physical..."

What. The. Hell? Olivia Newton-John? Edward hid behind the arch leading into the kitchen, leaning out just enough to watch Isabella shake her ass in time to the music that he now recognized as coming from the small speakers he had in the kitchen. Apparently, Isabella had found and oldies station was currently enjoying the sounds of a bygone era.

As she moved around the kitchen, she was certainly enthusiastic, pausing every now and then to swivel her hips like Elvis or give a little Madonna like gyration to add some variety. He watched her, smiling, wondering how such a carefree spirit had found something to admire in him. Wondering how she had managed to stay untouched by the anger and bitterness that so many people in her position would have had.

Abruptly, Isabella turned around and smirked at him. "Enjoying the show, you dirty boy?"

_Busted_, Edward thought. But he could find no embarrassment in the thought. "Yes, actually, quite a bit."

Isabella walked to him and put her arms around his neck. "Well good, that's the whole point." She kissed a lingering trail up his neck and to his ear, where she whispered, "I could get used to this, just so you know."

So could he.

But the words remained locked behind his lips. She didn't press or even look sad; instead, she squeezed him hard and briefly and then resumed making breakfast.

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

Edward skipped his visit to the gym, though he admitted that he felt a pang of guilt when he drove by the facility. He and Isabella had agreed to meet there later that night. She had asked him to spend the night at her house, so a small overnight bag was in the backseat of his car.

He might have been grinning like an idiot when he walked into work because Janice did a double take. "Good morning, Edward," she said.

"Yes it is," Edward replied as he walked right past her into his office.

Later, Isabella called him and told him to go to the gym and workout by himself, as she had been hit by inspiration was writing furiously so that they might more fully enjoy their time together.

_**~Bad Blood~**_

Edward went to the gym and worked out, though his mind was elsewhere. Or perhaps it was on _someone_ else. Before he drove to Isabella's house, he checked his house phone and got his messages. There were only two. One was a sales call and the other from his Aunt Esme. For the first time in a decade, they hadn't talked on Saturday night. He felt a rush of guilt and then replayed the message.

"Hello, Edward. Your uncle and I are going out tonight to celebrate. You see, he's retiring next month and we want to start planning our trip. We want to see the world. I didn't want to tell you before because..." There was a small laugh. "Well, I know you don't like change." More laughter and he could hear his uncle's voice in the background. "But something tells me you're ready for things to start changing."

Edward smiled. "So...just call me when you get a chance. I'm...I'm so glad that things seem to be going well with your Isabella."

Click.

His Isabella. _His_ Isabella.

Edward smiled all the way to her house, to_ his_ Isabella's house, the brownies Janice had given him in a container on the seat.

_**~Bad Blood~**_

They had spent the night watching iconic 80s movies and laughing over the fashions. They had eaten two bowls of popcorn, made banana splits, and then cuddled on the couch, bemoaning their own greed and patting their full bellies. When they finally fell into Isabella's bed, they neither fucked nor made love, but snuggled up against each other and fell into a contented sleep.

The next day when they woke up, Edward insisted on making breakfast, though he refused to dance around the kitchen. He kissed Isabella good-bye at the door, feeling very much like a man who was part of something bigger and better than he could ever be alone. They agreed to meet at the diner for lunch. They had their usual, and when it was over, they kissed on the sidewalk where everyone could see them and Edward walked back to his office, thinking furiously the whole way.

Things were moving so fast and Edward felt out of control. Was he being fair to her to try and build a normal relationship with her when he knew it was only doomed to end in disaster? A man like him was not worthy of a woman like her, even without their shared and horrific history. Her eyes had been sad as she had pulled away from their kisses, but her touch had been tender, coaxing him into belief.

He wasn't surprised when he got her text later that day. As always, she knew when to advance and when to retreat. Edward needed to sort out his thoughts and emotions. Isabella deserved nothing less than his wholehearted devotion. Until he could give her that, he was selling them both short.

_**I'm tired and probably very bad company right now. Sleep tight. I'll see you tomorrow. Keep a side of the bed warm for me**_. _**~ B**_

He did not sleep well that night. The bed, in which he was so accustomed to sleeping alone and which had never, before Isabella, borne the weight of another's body, was empty. The vast expanse mocked him as he turned over, restless and frustrated.

When the sun rose, he sat up and turned off the alarm. As he slumped on the edge of the bed, he took a brutal and honest inventory of what and who he was. Without a doubt, he knew he did not deserve Isabella. She was an angel and he was a monster, hidden though the beast might be for the moment. But he wondered, as he sat there and watched the light move into his lonely room, if perhaps Isabella had the will and strength to hold his monster at bay, to keep it caged up for however long she would deign to share her life with him.

He thought she could. He was hopeful she would want to.

"_Run, Edward...run..."  
_

His mother's voice came to him over the space of years. He hadn't run on that day. He had stayed the course even though fear had made his heart feel as if it was clawing its way out of his chest and his skin had been slick with a cold and clammy sweat.

He hadn't run that day.

But he had been running ever since. And he hadn't stopped. Not once, in all the years since he wrestled with his father for a blade meant to murder his mother, had he stopped running.

Perhaps it was time to stop now. Perhaps Isabella would help him try. Just as he had once chosen to make a stand in a place of death, now he was going to stand firm once again. This time, he was going to attempt to wrestle something wonderful out of something horrible. If anyone could do it, it was Isabella.

Before he could argue with himself over what was fair and what was right, he picked up the phone and dialed Isabella's number. "I need to see you," he whispered urgently as soon as he heard her voice.

She laughed then. "Made up your mind, have you?"

He was no longer surprised by her insight and deadly accurate instincts. In fact, he found himself relying on them, counting on them to steer him and guide him. "Yes," he answered solemnly. "Yes. I want..." _I want you – forever_. The words trembled on his tongue, longing to be set free. "I want to try." The words were weak and tentative, but so was he. Isabella was the strong one, and she would carry them through.

"Me too," Isabella replied solemnly. There was a moment of silence, which hung between them, heavy and burdened. "You were thinking about running from me, weren't you? You're afraid."

He had spent more than half his life in fear – fear of his father, fear of himself, fear of whatever monster lurked within him.

He could not lie to Isabella. He could not speak at all. His silence betrayed him. There was a soft sigh from her end of the line. "Oh Edward," she said quietly. "Don't you know, you beautiful man, that if you run, I'll come after you. If you're lost, I'll find you. If you fall...I'll pick you up."

"I-"

"It's all right," Isabella murmured.

He had to say the words. "I can't...I can't stay away from you," he confessed. If he was stronger, he would stay away from her; prove himself worthy of her with his absence. But he wasn't stronger and he wasn't worthy – and that wasn't going to stop him. "And I don't want to...stay away that is. I want...I need...you."

"And I need you too," Isabella said, and something inside of him shifted, making room for something better and noble. Maybe, bit by bit, Isabella could push the monster out, and leave behind only Edward.

"Can I come to you tonight?" he pleaded.

"You'd better," Isabella told him.

And he did.

_** ~ Bad Blood~**_

The days became weeks, still ordered and predictable. Well, as much as anything could be predictable with Isabella in the mix. They spent their weekends together, dividing their time between his house and hers. Monday morning he would return to work and fill Janice in on their weekend and asking her about hers. There was a steady supply of baked goods and Isabella complained that her favorite jeans were getting too tight, so they added another run to their schedule, choosing Monday nights as an atonement for their rather enthusiastic enjoyment of sweets later on in the evening. Tuesdays found them having lunch at the diner, holding hands on the table and stealing bits of food from each other's plates.

They ran together again on Wednesdays, even though the days were now cold and they could see their breath in the air. On Thursday mornings, they would drop off their dry cleaning together. Sharon was expecting a new grandbaby, and she and Isabella would talk about the impending arrival.

On Fridays, they still danced. Now, however, when they left the dance floor, they would go to Edward's house. There, on that bed that now seemed to be Isabella's, they would move together more. Eventually, Edward learned to give into his more primitive impulses. Gradually, her sweet voice urged him to let loose the male animal he had always feared.

One night, after he had been unable to resist Isabella's teasing another moment and had bent her over the back of the couch, sinking in deep while she groaned out her encouragement, he was shaken. He had not been gentle while he moved inside of her. He had grunted and thrust and gripped her hips tightly to hold her still for his impalement. Yet, her face, that pale profile, had been beautiful in her pleasure and not once had she uttered a protest.

It occurred to Edward that as tender and sweet as it had been when he had had sex with other women, in the end, it had all just been fucking. But what he did with Isabella, though sometimes primal and animalistic and not always gentle, had always been making love. He wondered at the dichotomy of it all for a moment and then realized that it was intention and not action that made the difference. Every moment he spent with Isabella, he was worshipping her body with his. Sometimes that adoration took the form of love nips and fierce thrusts, and sometimes it was gentle sighs or soft caresses. But it was _always_ making love.

Edward Cullen came to a realization.

God help him, he had fallen in love with Isabella Swan.

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

So their days and weeks slipped into months and seasons, and soon the fresh fragrances of spring flowers filled the air. One Sunday, after a BBQ where they had entertained their now mutual friends, Edward found himself pacing the floor.

He was going to ask Isabella to move in with him. He was tired of being apart from her. He still wasn't sure that what they had would last forever. He still feared the monster he knew must even now be testing the bars of the cage he had constructed. But, for the first time, he had hopes that he could keep the beast locked away and keep him from ever seeing the light of day.

Isabella was his hope and his prayer.

She was his strength and his redeemer. In her eyes, he sometimes caught a glimpse of a different Edward, the man who might have existed if events had taken a different path. She made him want to find that man, to be _that_ man. He wasn't sure it was possible, but he knew he wanted to try.

And for her, he would.

They cleaned up from the gathering, working together as flawlessly as they ever had. When the house was set to rights, they plopped down on the couch and she settled into his arms. Suddenly, she stopped and looked up at him. "What would you think about me getting a dog?"

He had had his mouth opened to ask her to move in with him, but Isabella had thrown him with her question. "If you want one, then you should get one," he finally replied. He liked dogs; he always had. "I always wanted a dog," he admitted.

Isabella grinned and then settled back against him. "Okay, a dog it is then."

He tilted up her face so that he could watch her eyes when he asked her. She had wonderfully expressive eyes, incapable of guile or dishonesty. "I..." He swallowed hard and Isabella looked concerned.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I have...I want..." He took a deep breath. "Isabella, would you move in with me?" He blurted out the words, afraid his courage would fail him. He still didn't deserve Isabella, but with every day that passed, he knew with more certainty that they belonged together, deserving or not. If he sensed the monster was making an appearance, he would run. This time, he_ would_ run and keep her safe. But for now, he was selfish enough to grasp what happiness he could.

"Do you really want me here?" For once, Isabella was unsure and Edward wanted the familiar certainty back in her voice. He realized that even though he had admitted his feelings to himself long ago, he had lacked the courage to tell her.

"I...I love...I love you," he finally said, hardly able to look at her. Unworthy as he was, he did love her. While his heart might be battered and badly patched together, he offered it to her wholeheartedly and with humility. It was hers to do with as she pleased, even if her choice was to crush it beneath her feet.

"I love you too," she said softly and kissed him. "So...we're getting a dog?" she asked.

He nodded, too full of emotion to speak.


	13. Chapter 13

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

**Author's Note: The story of the dog in this chapter is absolutely true. It is how my daughter adopted our dog, Dexter. You can't make this stuff up, LOL!**

**Chapter 13**

_**Mother's love is peace. It need not be acquired, it need not be deserved. ~Erich Fromm**_

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

One day, he woke up to find Isabella studying him. "We're going to the pound today," she announced. It was Saturday. Last night, they had danced and celebrated one whole month of living together by making love on the couch. And then on the dining room table. It was Friday but they hadn't fucked. But they had done it twice. He grinned at the memory.

"The dog pound?" he asked.

"Of course," she replied with a little roll of her eyes. "We're going to the dog pound."

"We are?" he asked, tugging at her hair.

"Yes," Isabella said. "And we're going to get a dog."

"A dog, huh?" He liked to tease her. He liked feeling _free_ to tease her. It was a new and heady feeling for him, this sense of freedom he felt around her. He tried to pull her in close for a little snuggling that he hoped might lead to a little something else, but she was having none of it. For once, his powers of persuasion failed him.

"Nope," Isabella declared, sliding out of bed. "Time for that later."

He pouted, just a little, and she leaned down and gave him a kiss before dancing away and sneaking into the bathroom and locking the door.

"What if I have to pee?" he yelled at the door.

"Too bad," she replied and then he heard the shower start. He winced because he really did have to pee. But he supposed he could wait a few minutes. It wasn't like she had given him much choice. He got their cups of coffee ready and ran to the bathroom as soon as Isabella made an appearance. He slipped past her, his aching bladder encouraging him to hurry. Sharing a bathroom was more of a challenge than he had anticipated.

When he returned, she was already dressed and tapping her foot impatiently. "Hurry!"

"Why are we hurrying?" he asked curiously.

"We just are," she said, pushing him toward the front door.

For a month now, Edward had been asking her what kind of dog they were going to get. He preferred something small and older maybe, definitely house trained. Isabella always shrugged and said, "I'll know our dog when I see it."

That did not soothe Edward's anxiety.

There was no moving her on the issue. There was no clarification provided, so Edward was, as he so often did with Isabella, operating in the dark and on utter trust in her instincts. It wasn't a bad arrangement, but sometimes he still had to take a few deep breaths to regain his bearings.

When they got to the pound, they were immediately greeted by the sound of barking dogs. There were deep barks, melancholy baying, and the occasional yip of a small dog. Edward wanted to ask the lady at the desk to show them their small dogs, but as usual Isabella took the lead in her usual gentle but inevitable way.

"Hi," Isabella said, holding out her hand. "We'd like to adopt a dog."

The woman smiled. "What kind of dog?"

Edward opened his mouth to state his preferences but Isabella forged ahead. "Well, the thing is..." She tapped the side of her mouth. "I'd like to see the dog that is closest to being put down." She leaned in close. "You know, the dog that's at the top of the list."

The woman's eyes went wide and her smile got brighter. "Oh, I have just the dog for you!"

Edward wanted to ask what kind of dog it was, how big it was, and if it was housebroken or mean. But the next he knew he was in a little room and listening to the sound of scrabbling paws out in the corridor. The door was flung open and something furry barreled through.

Bright brown eyes, one ear that stood up and one that flopped down, and a tail wagging a mile a minute were Edward's first impressions. Then the dog gave a bark that made him cover his ears and wince.

"He's part beagle," the handler said, as if that explained the piercing bark. It wasn't so much a bark as a battle cry.

Edward wondered if the dog was part monkey too, because he started trying to climb up into Isabella's lap. He was a tad big for a lap dog, probably weighing in at forty or fifty pounds. "He was scheduled to be put down yesterday actually," the pound employee said. "But we got busy. So..." Her hand came down and ruffled his multi-colored coat. "He's on the list for Monday."

When the dog figured out he wasn't making any headway in his climb, he began running around the room sniffing. He found a good spot, apparently, because he hiked his leg and peed. Right there on the wall. He similarly gifted another spot three feet away. Edward watched in disgusted amazement.

And just as he was about to ask if they had any other dogs to show them, Isabella fell to her knees on the floor and wrapped her arms around the comical looking mutt. "Oh Edward," she breathed. "Isn't he just_ perfect_?"

So it was that Edward Cullen found himself part owner of a dog that was part beagle and part who-knew-what that they named Barney.

_**~Bad Blood~**_

With Barney's arrival, things changed again. They had to add walking the dog to their schedule. As much as Edward didn't want to, he found himself growing attached to the little guy. He was young and mostly housebroken. Edward learned that "mostly" meant they had to be on the lookout. He was smart, but sometimes that worked against them – like when Barney figured out how to nudge open the pantry door and ate about ten pounds of kibble before passing out in a gastronomic coma of excess. They found him sprawled in the middle of a small pile of kibble, his expression guilty and his tail wagging.

Edward muttered and complained as he swept up the mess, but then Barney licked his hand and his eyes were downcast in abject misery as if to apologize and Edward simply found a new place for the dog food. When Isabella would lock herself in the small office to write, Barney would walk with Edward, or watch television with him. When friends came over for cookouts, Barney would beg and plead politely, usually getting some food for his efforts. For some reason, they found Barney as charming as Edward did.

Then one day, his aunt called and said that she and his uncle were hoping that they could come by for a visit and finally meet his Isabella. The two women had talked many times, but a previously scheduled trip had been canceled when his aunt came down with the flu. Edward was suddenly nervous.

Isabella took the phone and the two of them chatted. Finally, she hung up and Isabella plopped herself on his lap.

"So...they'll be here next weekend," she said, running her fingers through his hair.

It felt so good that Edward closed his eyes. "Hmmmm..."

"I can't wait to meet her," Isabella continued. Then Edward felt her lips on his and he decided that maybe it was time for the two most important women in his life to meet.

_**~Bad Blood~**_

Esme and Carlisle were as charmed by Isabella as Edward had expected them to be. His aunt was more vocal in her approval of Isabella. His uncle, in his usual way, preferred to spend more time observing and assessing before weighing in with his opinion. Carlisle Cullen had always been a cautious man, and Edward had unintentionally emulated him when he had been lost and adrift in the rough seas that were his father's legacy.

Though Edward adored his aunt, he understood his quiet uncle in a way that transcended a blood bond. During his difficult teenaged years, his aunt's tenderness had been a balm to his aching heart, but his uncle's steady and unfaltering friendship had been the foundation upon which Edward had built a more normal life.

Carlisle had never pushed when Edward had grown sulky and withdrawn. He had been there, waiting patiently, for when Edward would peek out of his cocoon for long enough to notice the world yet again. Carlisle had never mocked Edward's need for order and schedules. He had allowed the boy to find a path through the darkness, and between his aunt and uncle, Edward Masen, son of the monster, had become Edward Cullen, the somewhat eccentric but perfectly acceptable boy next door.

It had been Carlisle who had left a successful medical practice to move across the country so that his nephew wouldn't hear the taunts and jibes and cruel remarks that were directed his way. It had been Carlisle who had been the rock for both Esme and Edward as they dealt with the loss of Elizabeth, trying to find their way in a dark world that had lost her light. It had been Carlisle's idea to put her maiden name on the tombstone, to thwart the sensation seekers who might have made her grave part of some macabre pilgrimage.

Elizabeth Sloane rested in peace.

So while Edward was glad to see his aunt and Isabella fall into an easy friendship, he waited anxiously for Carlisle to venture an opinion. It happened on the day before they were scheduled to leave. The women had stayed up late sampling various kinds of vodkas and discussing their merits. Edward and Carlisle had dropped out of the sampling early in the evening, but the ladies continued on, giggling madly and expressing their admiration for their men in louder and louder voices.

Barney had watched it all from a corner, an expression of canine bewilderment on his furry face. Edward felt he had probably had a very similar look upon his own face as he watched Isabella and Esme toast everything from fat free ice cream to Ewan McGregor, a man, they declared, who was seriously underrated and unappreciated as an actor and a sex symbol.

It had been a little scary.

This morning, the women had both slept in. Edward had woken at his usual time, even without the benefit of the alarm. The alarm generally didn't wake up Isabella and he had often pondered how she managed to make it anywhere on time. Edward was sitting on the back deck, enjoying the quiet morning when the sliding glass door opened and his uncle came out with a cup of coffee in his hands.

"Thanks," Carlisle said, taking a sip as he sat down in the chair near Edward. "You've got a pretty little piece of property here."

Edward had to agree. Though his house wasn't anything spectacular, he did own quite a bit of the land that stretched out behind the house. He'd never have neighbors peeking in his back windows and he liked the idea of some privacy. Especially now, he thought, trying to hide his smile. He and Isabella had christened every room in the house, including the deck, including, in fact, the chair upon which his ass rested at this very moment.

"I'm glad you came," Edward said quietly. "I'm glad you met Isabella."

Carlisle smiled and shrugged. "As if I could keep Esme away for long," he observed.

Edward laughed. He heard a bark and saw Barney racing up the slight incline toward the deck. He barreled up the stairs and thrust his head into Edward's lap, barely avoiding a head butt to Edward's testicles. Edward automatically flinched and settled a stern look on the mutt.

Barney had the grace to look ashamed, which might have impressed Edward more if he had not had the opportunity many times over to see how quickly Barney recovered from disgrace. Edward pointed to the dog bed which was nestled in a protected corner of the deck and Barney went to it obligingly, curling up in a furry ball.

"She's very special, your Bella," Carlisle finally said and Edward felt something inside of him relax.

"Yes, she is," Edward agreed. "Since I met her...I feel...alive."

"She has that effect," Carlisle said with a little smile. "She's sort of a force of nature, isn't she?"

"I've had that very same thought," Edward admitted.

"She's good for you, Edward," Carlisle said.

"I know."

"But what I don't think you realize is that you're good for her too," his uncle added, surprising Edward.

"I-" He stopped, unsure of what to say.

"You were wandering and lost in your own, well-ordered way," Carlisle said with a hint of amusement. "But so was Isabella, though her path was more chaotic than yours, I think." He laughed softly. "It does my heart good to see the two of you, to know that something beautiful has bloomed from all the ugliness."

The ugliness was his father's evil, his legacy. _Edward's_ legacy. Sometimes he forgot that as he allowed himself to revel in the sublime forgiveness that Isabella had brought to his life.

Carlisle turned to him. "You know, I remember the first time I saw you," he said. "You were a red, wrinkled thing, wailing loud enough to make me wish I'd brought ear plugs. Your father was holding you, his arms stiff, and his expression even stiffer." Carlisle Cullen had never particularly liked his brother-in-law, even before his true nature came to light. "Then he couldn't take it any more and he put you in your mother's arms." Carlisle closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. "The look on her face when she cradled you close to her, that look of overwhelming love..." He sighed. "If I hadn't believed in love before, when I found Esme, I would have believed in it then."

Edward was silent, trying desperately to breathe past the lump in his throat. His breath felt locked up inside of him, expanding and filling him past bearing.

"That's a look you don't see often," Carlisle continued. "I think that in today's world we try to hide our feelings too much, so we don't allow anyone to gain the upper hand, trying to keep a part of ourselves hidden and safe. But by guarding our hearts, we lose something precious, something that can only be purchased through vulnerability." Carlisle paused. "But when I look at Bella looking at _you_, I see that same look. She gravitates toward you, as you do toward her. It's...it's an impressive thing to see Edward. It's humbling too. But most of all, it's precious and sacred and I know you will honor it."

Edward stared out, his mouth working but no words coming forth.

Carlisle's hand came down on his shoulder, briefly, and then was gone. But it was enough.


	14. Chapter 14

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

**Chapter 14**

"_**Change always comes bearing gifts." ~Price Pritchett**_

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

Bella Swan woke up with a pounding headache, an iffy feeling in her belly, and a gleam of determination in her eyes. She had time to plan and plot. She couldn't do anything while Esme and Carlisle were here, but that was just fine. She needed time to come up with a strategy that would both achieve her goal and be gentle enough for Edward. He was too damaged to treat roughly, too precious to hurt even with the best of intentions.

Last night, she and Esme had overindulged, but they hadn't been as far gone as their men had suspected. Both she and Esme had a much better head for liquor than their partners. So when the "Y Squad" – as Bella and Esme had dubbed all those burdened by a "y" chromosome – had gone to bed, the two women had put away the vodka and sipped at herbal teas as they sat on the couch and settled into the real conversation.

Esme Cullen was a force to be reckoned with. If Bella hadn't gotten to know her quite well over the phone, she might have been intimidated by someone like Esme. As it was, however, they found themselves merely continuing what had already shaped up to be a very promising friendship.

Bella had never been constrained by a too strict sense of boundaries. In fact, she often was of the opinion that people caused a lot of their own stress by keeping too much bottled up inside. A good venting every now and then, she declared, was as necessary a part of life as eating and breathing. She had even, on one memorable occasion, told her father that a good bitch session was like a laxative for the soul. And Bella was feeling a bit bound up, figuratively speaking of course.

So she had chosen to vent to the one person in the world that had a hope of understanding.

"It's not like our sex life isn't great," Bella confided. "I mean it...wow."

Esme squirmed a little, but to her credit, she motioned for Bella to continue.

"I just feel like...like he's holding something back," Bella said quietly.

"What makes you feel that way?" Esme asked.

Bella took a sip of a tea. "Well, for one thing, even though I'm covered in the birth control department, he refuses to do it without a condom."

Esme was silent for a moment, as if contemplating her nephew and his various eccentricities. It was clear that she felt this was outside her usual realm of expertise, but Bella's expression was so earnest and confused that she felt she had to at least try to do something to help. This young woman had become too important to Edward. They were exactly what the other needed and anyone with any sense at all could see it.

She was just about to tell Bella to give it more time when Bella's forlorn voice interrupted her thoughts. "I can't believe I'm telling you this, but obviously I can't talk to my dad about it." Bella shuddered. "He's a great guy, but I think this would strain even his powers of understanding, if you know what I mean."

"Yes, I imagine it would," Esme said dryly, thinking that it was a bit of strain on her own as well.

"The thing is...the thing is that I almost get this feeling that he's afraid of – God, this sounds so bad and please, _please_ don't think that this is what _I'm_ feeling – that he's afraid of, I don't know, getting me dirty or something, like if he...you know..."

Esme sat back and sighed. "Yes, I'm afraid you're right."

Bella nodded vigorously. "I knew it. I could tell. I just had this funny feeling. I mean he won't even come in my-" She bit the words off abruptly, causing choked laughter from Esme.

"I get the picture," Esme said delicately. She paused and then sighed again. "About two years after everything happened Edward was helping Carlisle in the workshop. This was a huge step for him, you know. Being back in a workshop, even one as mundane as the little space that Carlisle kept, was a huge step for him."

Bella nodded her understanding.

"Anyway, they'd been working on a simple project for about two weeks. It was Mother's Day, and Edward had told Carlisle that he wanted to give me a gift. I've always loved to garden, and I like birds to visit the garden. So they were building me a bird house." Her smile was fond and sad at the same time. "Anyway, as these things sometimes happen, he – Edward that is – cut himself. Quite badly, in fact, and bled all over the floor." Her eyes shot to Bella. "Carlisle tried to wrap his hand, to see the damage, but Edward wouldn't let him. When Carlisle finally insisted, Edward just started shaking, sort of sobbing, kind of zoned out. By that time I'd heard the commotion and had run out to the garage to see what was going on."

She paused and closed her eyes. "Edward was huddled up in a corner, clutching his hand to his chest, muttering over and over. I couldn't tell what he was saying, but... Anyway, he stayed like that, until I approached him. I had a towel in my hand, I'd been folding the laundry, you see. I was going to wrap the towel around his hand. But the minute I got too close he started screaming and then he jumped to his feet and sort of shoved me away with his shoulder. He screamed at me to get away from the blood..._his_ blood." Esme took Bella's hand. "He told me his blood was dirty, that it was _bad_."

"Oh God," Bella whispered.

"So I think that, maybe in Edward's mind at least, he's trying to keep you safe from whatever he imagines lives inside of him," Esme said.

"His bad blood," Bella murmured. "His dirty blood."

"We both know that Edward is rather set in his ways," Esme said. Bella snorted. "And, to go along with that, he's got a very protective personality. He always has, though I'm not sure he realizes it. Even as a small child, he was the one standing up for the kid in the playground that always got picked on; he was the boy who talked to the new student on their first day of school and sat with them at lunch; he was the kind of kid who brought his mother aspirin and a cool glass of tea when she had a headache." Esme smiled. "He likes to pamper and take care of others, he likes to keep them safe. I imagine he feels that he failed his mother in some way and every day since her death has been spent in some sort of penance. Every routine he has is a way to keep him from hurting anyone. But you already know that. You've already seen through that. Now you need to help _him_ know that and to see through that."

"That's not going to be easy," Bella observed.

"No, it's not," Esme agreed. "But I think that if anyone can do it, you can. He needs you, Bella. He needs you more than either of you know. So please be patient. Please try to help him see."

Bella's lips were pressed together and her chin jerked up. "I'm not going anywhere. Even if he wants me to, even if he pushes me away, as long as I'm good for him, I'm here."

Esme smiled. "Good, that's what I wanted to hear." She shook her head and laughed. "We should go to bed. I'm too old to be drinking this much."

Bella got to her feet and offered Esme a hand up. "Our men are lightweights, you know that right?"

Esme gave a sly little wink. "That'll stay our little secret."

"Definitely."

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

Carlisle and Esme left on a Sunday afternoon. Edward had been both sad and happy to see them go. Sad, because he always missed them far more than he realized until he saw them again. Happy, because once more he had Isabella to himself. Well, to himself and to Barney. Barney was pouting for a while after their departure because Carlisle had always been sneaking him treats.

Isabella had been in a quiet mood all day long. She wasn't angry, because Isabella never left anyone in doubt when she was angry. She wasn't a sulker, and she never snapped off a response of "Fine" when in fact, she wasn't fine. If she had a bone to pick with Edward, she picked it. Clearly and with no coyness. When they fought, they did so cleanly, came to a resolution, and then it was put behind them. She didn't hold a grudge, or brood. In truth, Edward was the one who brooded. Isabella would gently tease him out of his funk and draw him back into the light that seemed to surround her. And there he would stay...until the next time the demons tormented him. She would simply repeat the process.

But today's mood was something new, something different. Edward Cullen didn't like new and different as a rule, and this was just another example of why he didn't.

They sat on the couch, pretending to watch a movie. He kept darting anxious glances toward her. Had she fallen out of love with him? Had she realized that he wasn't worthy of her? Had she simply grown tired of him? He studied her expression.

She didn't look upset. Or angry. Or even disgusted. No, Isabella appeared to be...determined.

Determined?

His brain analyzed her face over and over again, computing every small gesture and sigh, but he kept coming up with the same conclusion.

Determination.

But determined to do what?

Finally, about halfway through the movie, Isabella surged to her feet and held out her hand. "Come on, I need a shower."

Obediently, still afraid and confused, Edward put his hand in hers and followed her into the bathroom. Silently, she turned on the water and then she turned and began to undress him. Her touch was tender but not sexual as she slowly removed his shirt and then urged him to lift his feet to remove his socks. His belt was next and it fell to the floor with a little thump of sound. She unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down his hips and thighs and knelt before him. He steadied himself with his hand on her shoulder when he stepped out of them.

She left him standing there in his underwear while she pulled her tee-shirt over her head and dropped it to the floor. Then she shimmied out of the tiny pair of underwear she had opted for, since it was just the two of them at home. He found his mouth going dry and his cock growing hard, straining against the cotton of his boxer briefs.

Isabella tested the water and gave a nod of satisfaction. She turned back to him and settled her hands on his hips, tracing light patterns that verged on tickling.

Then her lips were on his, her tongue teasing and tantalizing, making him moan and yank her into his arms. Without thought, he ground his pelvis against hers, seeking that friction that only Isabella could provide.

Her slender hands pushed at his underwear, sliding them off his hips and down his thighs. They fell to the floor and he stepped out of them as he walked her back toward the shower. They stepped in together, both of them giving a start of surprise at the warm water.

They kissed leisurely for several minutes, Isabella pressing up against him in the most delicious way, rubbing her leg against his, her hands kneading his ass and then sliding up his back. Eventually, she wrapped around him like a vine and he knew he had to be inside of her or he would die.

"Let's take this to the bedroom," he urged.

"No," she insisted. "Here."

He cast one glance at his clothes. He had a condom in his wallet. Their healthy sexual appetites had taught him the wisdom of keeping a condom at hand at all times. But the condom was just out of reach, in his pants, in his wallet, and Isabella showed no signs of letting him go long enough to get it.

"Isabella," he whispered. "The condom..."

"Bella," she reminded him automatically.

He smiled. "Bella..."

Whatever else he might have said was cut off when he hissed as Isabella slid down his body to come to her knees in front of him. His cock jerked and throbbed and he groaned at the sensation of her hot breath against it. "Bella," he breathed.

Then her mouth was on him, licking, teasing, sucking him until he was mindless, and thrusting into her mouth with heedless abandon. "God!" he moaned as her hand lightly tugged and teased his balls. He felt his orgasm begin to roll through him, threatening to burst out of him and into her.

_Into_ her.

Shit. He tried to pull out of her mouth, but she had maneuvered him so that his back was against the shower wall and he simply had nowhere to go. He pulled at her arms and she stubbornly shook her head, letting her teeth glide over his aching length at the same time. She pulled away and he breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short lived when she took him in her hands and lightly stroked him, just enough stimulation to keep him teetering on the edge.

"Edward?"

He couldn't speak and he let his head fall back hard against the tile and tried to breathe at least.

"I love you, Edward Cullen," she whispered, still slowly stroking his cock, cupping his balls.

"I need something, Edward," Isabella told him.

"Anything," he vowed and he meant it. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on not coming.

"I trust you, Edward," she added and he forced himself to look at her, there on her knees, with his dick in her hands and her heart shining in her eyes. "Do you trust _me_, Edward?"

"With my life," he said. He'd protect her with his life. He'd _give _her his life. Surely she had to know that. Anything she wanted of him, it was hers.

"Do you trust me to know what's good for me?" she asked, giving the head of his cock a little lick after she spoke. He groaned, fighting the dueling urges to bury his length in her warm, welcoming mouth and to run far, far away to keep her clean and unsullied. It was a trickier question, this one, because Isabella had seemed to have decided that _he_ was good for her, when he knew quite well that couldn't be true.

"God, Bella," he moaned, his hips twisting uselessly, seeking more. Seeking less. Surrender. Escape.

"What I need from you, Edward, is trust," Bella said softly. "Complete and utter trust, like I have in you. Like I'll always have in you."

He began trembling, and felt it become a wild storm that raged inside of him. She licked him again and they both moaned.

"You taste so good to me," she said. "And I want all of you. I don't want to feel as if you're holding anything back from me anymore. Please...please...I need all of you. I _love _all of you. Please, just give me this..." Tears traced down her cheeks, mingling with the water of the shower.

He blinked down at her, feeling both helpless and ultimately powerful. It was wrong, what he wanted to do. So very, very wrong. But..._Isabella_ had always been right. So far, she had not led them astray. What if...what if she was right in this too?

But what if she wasn't?

Once more, she took him into her mouth but stilled there, not moving, just looking up at him with eyes that told him what she wanted. She would not _take_ anything from him, but she would ask him for everything. Edward took a deep breath and sent up a little prayer. Whether he was asking for strength or forgiveness or merely offering up his gratitude he wasn't sure.

Then he met her eyes and he nodded at the same time he thrust into her mouth. He moved his hips, sliding his cock over her plump lips and white teeth, let it slide over her tongue. Back and forth, stroking, giving, taking, asking, pleading, hoping...

And the ecstasy burst through him like a blinding light, leaving him breathless and weak and trembling against a shower wall. Her mouth accepted him, swallowed him, took him in, and made him a part of her.

Forever.

And he felt the world tilt and stars go nova. The universe changed in a moment. _His_ universe. His reality.

Because of Bella.


	15. Chapter 15

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

**Chapter 15**

_**"What matters is not the idea a man holds, but the depth at which he holds it."  
~Ezra Pound**_

_**~Bad Blood~**_

If Bella had thought her problems with Edward and his view of himself were over just because he'd lost himself enough to spill into her mouth, she was soon to find out that she was sadly mistaken. Almost immediately, Edward was overcome with feelings of guilt and remorse.

No one, she discovered, could do guilt and remorse like Edward Cullen. The man had it down to a science...or perhaps it was an art, she mused. In any case, she found herself soothing him out of his funk. He muttered and grumbled and scowled a great deal. She caressed and whispered and teased in return. In the end, she lulled him out of his foul mood, though he did insist on sulking for a bit.

She gave him twenty four hours and then declared his pout at an end. He grumbled some more but she was adamant.

Sulk fest was over. End of statement. The moment he tried to indulge again, she pointedly ignored him and talked to Barney. She said things like, "No one likes a whiner, do they Barney boy?" or "Talk about tripping over your bottom lip!"

Barney must have agreed with everything she said because he wagged his tail and generally gazed up at her adoringly. Though it might have been his imagination, Edward was sure that the dog was giving him an accusing glare. Well, as much as a part beagle, part something could glare.

Between the two of them, Edward felt quite miserable indeed.

_**~Bad Blood~**_

Finally, Edward approached Isabella penitently and placed remorseful kisses up and down her throat. As forgiving and warm as always, she pulled him into her arms and they made love on the floor by the sofa. "It's for your own good," she muttered against his mouth. At that point, Edward was willing to agree with her.

Barney ignored them as best he could from his perch on the couch, until their grunts and groans and general disregard for his fine canine sensibilities outstripped even Barney's patience. With a great show of huffing and indignation, he jumped down, barely missing Edward's ass in the process. They both laughed, and the laughter made the position of his dick do interesting things inside of her.

He wore a condom, but Isabella didn't fuss. He sensed both her disappointment and her acceptance. He knew better than to think the subject was dropped.

For the next few weeks, Isabella worked at pushing his boundaries with gentle determination. First, she guided him inside of her bare and then retreated, putting the condom on him herself as if to reward him for his forbearance. Though grateful for the protection of the condom, Edward found the sensation of being inside of her without a barrier infinitely more intimate than with the latex between them. It was as if he was a part of her in a way that went beyond the mechanics of sex, but that, of course, was exactly what terrified him.

He told himself firmly that he didn't need that, that Isabella was perfect even with that thin sheath of protection between them. He told himself again. And again. And again.

Then one day they were sitting in the tub, enjoying a Saturday night bath together as had become their custom. It usually led to lovemaking. Or fucking. Or some variation of the two. Sometimes it led to _two_ variations.

Isabella was leaning against the back of the tub and Edward was leaning against Isabella. She liked him to sit there so that she could tenderly wash his chest and then his thighs. She would gently move the wash cloth up and down his arms, caressing his fingers, his wrists and his forearms as if they fascinated her. She would murmur her appreciation of his body; she would whisper her for him, filling the warm, moist air with the sounds of words he would never have expected. Sometimes she would slip her hands down between his legs and stroke him until he was writhing and groaning and sweating.

"Edward?" she asked, her breath warm in his ear. She nipped at his earlobe and then licked in silent apology for her tiny transgression.

"Yes..." His voice sounded lazy and sleepy and utterly sated. He wasn't. Sated, that is. Later, he would be sated, and so would she if he did things correctly. Generally, he did things correctly. He was _content_, he realized with a start. He closed his eyes and let the sensation of Isabella's hands soothe him. If there was a heaven, Edward thought, he no longer worried about being denied admission. Moments like these were enough and more than he deserved.

"You know I'm on the pill, right?"

That made his eyes pop open and he felt himself stiffen (and not in a good way) and tried to move away. Her hands urged him back against her gently but without hesitation. "Yes."

"And I hope you know I'd never trick you, never stop taking my birth control in secret. Right?"

He turned to look at her. "Of course."

She smiled and kissed the tip of his nose as a reward for his prompt and correct answer. Trust was very important with Isabella, as he had come to discover. "So...well, I'd like to talk about the condoms and see if that's something we might negotiate."

And there it was, the moment he had been waiting for. Isabella was confronting him about the condoms and why he used them. His eyes skittered away and he shrugged. "Safe sex is important," he tried to say casually.

"Edward." It was just his name, but it was a warning as well. Isabella didn't tolerate dancing around answers, mostly because she so rarely indulged in the practice herself.

Once more, he glanced up at her and then away again. "I...I just want to keep you safe."

"Safe from what?"

He took a deep breath. "From me," he answered with as much honesty as he could. "From what...from what is inside of me."

He felt her hands lifting his face and he could no longer avoid her gaze. She held him captive; he was helpless against her. Isabella ruled him not with fear or intimidation, but with love and affection and forgiveness. She was a gentle dictator, if such a thing was possible.

"Baby," she whispered and even in that terrifying moment he thrilled at the endearment. "Do you honestly think that you're bad inside?"

He hesitated, wanting to lie, wanting to soothe her and set aside this whole awkward conversation. But one look into her eyes and the lie died on his tongue. Unspoken. Unspeakable. "Yes," he finally answered quietly and closed his eyes, waiting for the fall of the executioner's axe.

"I don't," she said just as softly.

He dared to look at her again, terrified that he would see anger, or even worse, pity. Instead, there was nothing but compassion and tenderness.

She kissed him and it was a benediction. "One day, you'll believe that too, Edward Cullen. I'm going to make that my life's mission." She smiled and brushed his hair back from his face. "Well, that and loving you. I can't help that. I'm wired to love you. Completely. Always. Without end. You'll believe that too, one day. I know you will. You won't be able to help it. I'm rather convincing when I want to be."

He laughed and buried his face in her neck shyly. He wanted to believe her.

He almost could.

_**~Bad Blood~**_

Later, looking back on those days, he would recognize both the perfection and the fragility of their happiness. It had been built on a shaky foundation. They had not yet been tested; they had yet to face the monster. But what they shared was irrefutable, and it would see them through the worst of the storm that was heading their way.

Like heedless, reckless children, they frolicked through the summer of their love, ignoring the fact that something loomed on the horizon. In their innocence, they were content. But like any holiday, it had to come to an end.

He could remember the day that it did. It was a Thursday. Again. His life seemed to hinge on Thursdays, tilting first one way and then another. As fate would have it, this particular Thursday fell just two weeks before he was due to meet Charlie Swan for the first time.

Change came in the form of a letter. A simple piece of paper and an envelope. Of course, Isabella had come in the form of a knock on his door, so he supposed that even profound and fundamental changes could come in the most common of ways. He recognized the return address immediately of course. A part of him had been watching for it, but when it came, it wasn't what he expected.

Isabella had a meeting with her publisher that afternoon, so she came home late. She found him sitting in the dark, the letter still clutched in his hand, Barney whining as he rested his head on Edward's lap. In the absence of Isabella, Barney had proven to be a comforting companion.

Edward's eyes found Isabella's face and he held out the letter, still bewildered and afraid. But he knew that Isabella could make sense of the insensible, pluck some comprehension out of the incomprehensible. "What's the matter?" she asked, taking the letter but not reading it.

"It's..." He shook his head. "Read the letter."

She did. Edward watched as she grew pale and her lips pressed together. Finally, she folded the letter up and looked at him. "So?" she asked. "What do you want to do?"

"I don't know," he admitted. _Please tell me what to do_, he pleaded silently.

"If you want to go, I'll go with you," she said. She wouldn't tell him what to do, he realized, but she would help him find his way.

Edward felt the oppressive weight that had been crowding in on him fall away. He couldn't do this alone, but he could do anything with Isabella. He looked out the window and thought about all those endless sessions of counseling his aunt had arranged for him as a boy. Closure, they'd said over and over again. They had told his aunt he needed closure, harped on it. Edward thought they needed to shut up about things they would never understand. They had never faced a monster; they had never seen evil come to life in a familiar and beloved face; they had not watched their mother slowly bleed to death while their father urged a knife into their hands. True closure was putting those memories behind him. Meaningful closure was locking away the evil that lived within him, keeping him chained with schedules and rituals and routines.

It was protecting Isabella from the darkness that he knew had to lurk within him. It was accepting that one day he would lose her because he didn't deserve her in the first place. She had been a gift, for a season. One day that season would run its course and their relationship would be done.

Closure... Such a mundane word, overused and tossed about by people who had no clue what it truly meant. It haunted him, taunted him, and eluded him. So many therapists had been sure it was what he needed. He had dismissed them and their ignorant notions of what it was like to face the monster.

Now, for the first time, he thought maybe they had been right – or partially right at least. Maybe he needed to do this, not just for himself but for Isabella too. Maybe this was their chance to finally put the worst of it behind them. The ghosts still lingered, though they were both very good at ignoring them. Isabella because she would give them no power over her; Edward because he felt their power too keenly.

"I think I can do this if you're with me," he told her. Their eyes met again.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

He paused, thought about it, and then nodded. "Yes, I'm sure." And he was. More certain with every passing moment. "You don't have to go in _there_ with me, not..." He shook his head. "I wouldn't ask that of you, but just knowing you're there, nearby, even in the same town, will help."

"You wouldn't have to ask me," Isabella said quietly. "I'd do anything for you." She kissed him. "Anything." She kissed him again. He didn't protest. "I'll go with you. Not in the room," she interjected when he began to protest. " But I'll go with you."

It was more than he could have hoped.

He held her close and let the inevitable peace she brought with her wash over him. "We should leave as soon as possible," he finally said. "I want to get this over with."

"Are you going to tell your aunt?"

He shook his head. "Not now, later, when it's over. She'll only worry."

"She loves you," Isabella said.

"And I love her, but she doesn't need to worry about me any more."

"Yeah," Isabella laughed. "That's my job now and I take my work very seriously."

He held her and thought about what was to come. "I'm surprised he wants to see me," he said.

"He's dying and maybe..." She shrugged. "Or maybe this _counselor _person just thinks he needs to see you," Isabella said with obvious disdain. "But you don't have to go, Edward. You don't owe him or this fucking counselor a damned thing. He can rot in hell as far as I'm concerned and the counselor can kiss my lily white ass." She gave an emphatic nod to show him she meant it and he was touched by her loyalty, astonished at her ferocity.

"I know," Edward said quietly. "And I'm not doing it for him. I'm doing it for me...for us. I'm trying to put the past to rest once and for all. Because right now...right now it still feels like he owns a part of me, and I want that part back because I want to give all of me to you."

Her hand settled over his heart. "I have the most important part of you, and that's all I want."

But Edward knew that he had to give her everything. It was all or nothing. _Please God,_ he prayed, _don't let it be nothing. Let this be everything. Let me give her everything_.

They made love that night and it was tentative and sweet and after it was over and she fell asleep, he wondered why he felt the need to watch her all night long. He wanted to study her while she slept, to memorize her face, the sound of her breath, the scent of her skin, the way her hair tumbled over their pillows.

For the first time, he had hated the layer of latex between them. For the first time, he had wanted, truly _wanted_, to sink into her, flesh to flesh. He pondered that development, unsure of how it made him feel.

When he sensed that she was fully asleep, he slipped from the bed and reached beneath it. He took out the box that contained his mother's pictures and opened it. Isabella had encouraged him to display his mother's pictures but Edward was always afraid that the sight of her face would spark some long-buried memory in one of their friends. And they would know, and that horrible look would come into their eyes and they would never gaze on him the same way again.

So his mother stayed banished to the box beneath their bed.

His hand was shaking when he pulled out her picture. Even in the dim moonlight that streamed into the room through the window covered by the curtains Isabella had chosen, he could trace her features with unerring accuracy. The wide, laughing mouth, the green eyes that seemed to ask what was next, the soft cinnamon and bronze waves of her hair. She was beautiful in a way that would have aged well. As an old woman, if fate had been so kind as to grant her those years, a tantalizing hint of her youthful beauty would have shone through.

"I'm going to see him, Mom," Edward whispered. "I need to, just this once. For you...for me. For the future. And when I walk out of that room, I hope I'm free of him. Isabella deserves that, at least. I wish you could meet her. I wish..."

He wished so many things, so many useless, hopeless things.

Isabella stirred in their bed and the next thing he knew she was tucked in behind him, the small of his back pressed against her warm belly, still sleep scented and soft. Her slender arm wrapped around his waist and he felt her place a kiss on the skin of his back. Then her head popped from beneath his arm and she studied the picture too.

"She must have loved you so much." Isabella sighed and smiled slightly. "She would have been so proud of the man you've become," Isabella murmured. And there was the pressure of her lips again, this time on his side in the very spot where she knew he was somewhat ticklish. He didn't laugh but he squirmed just a bit. "She would have shared you with me, her baby boy and we would have tormented you mercilessly...but only in fun." Isabella laughed softly at the thought.

He put the picture back in the box and put the box on the table by the bed. Then he turned and gathered Isabella into his arms. He held her, the soft sounds of her breathing keeping the shadows at bay, vanquishing the bad dreams that threatened.


	16. Chapter 16

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

_**Author's Note: I must apologize for the delay in posting. I've got a huge project due on Wednesday and since it's a group project I think it's nothing more than an exercise in frustration, LOL! Anyway, I managed to get this written in between bouts of panic and aggravation.**_

**Chapter 16**

"_**It's not who you are that holds you back, it's who you think you're not." ~Author Unknown**_

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

Isabella was silent as she packed the small suitcase that was on the bed. Edward was equally silent as he placed his clothing carefully into his own bag. They both looked up at the same moment and their eyes met. Edward felt some of the tension bleed away, leaving behind only a dull, nagging sense of confusion and need. As if he had spoken, Isabella moved around the bed and pulled him into her arms. He hunched over and rested his head on her shoulder, ignoring the twinge in his back as he compensated for the difference in their heights.

"Am I doing the right thing?" he finally whispered, his words muffled against the soft, scented flesh of her throat.

Her hands never paused in their soothing strokes over his hair, across his shoulders, and then down his back. "Yes," she answered, and the assurance in her voice was so absolute that even Edward could not doubt it. The confusion began to seep away and only the need for Isabella remained.

His mouth found hers, hungry and hard. He shoved their bags to the floor just before he gave Isabella a nudge toward their bed. He followed her, carefully keeping the brunt of his weight from her body. It was not that he feared he would hurt her; despite her delicate appearance, the fragility was deceptive. Isabella Swan was the strongest person he knew. He counted on her strength, he needed it.

His hands were frantic as they pulled and tugged and moved. He heard a little rip of cloth and pulled away in surprise. Isabella just laughed and pulled him back to her, her tongue sweeping into his mouth, directing his attention back where she wanted it. Their hands tangled up with each other as they removed clothes with something less than elegant grace. There was a great deal of laughing and grunting and several "oomphs" as their efforts led to elbows and knees hitting sensitive places on each other.

Finally, their clothes were scattered all over the bed...and the floor. He groaned as their mouths melded together. There was something freeing about losing himself in the warmth of Isabella. The taste of her, the softness, the way she gave herself without reservation. His fingers drifted down between her thighs, murmuring his appreciation when they fell open in invitation. He teased and taunted, making promises he fully intended to keep. Isabella arched against him. "More," she demanded. He was happy to oblige. When he slid his fingers inside of her, she hissed and he paused. "Good," she moaned. Like him, she was often reduced to one syllable utterances when they came together like this.

"You feel so good," he whispered. "I love you, my Isabella."

"Love you," she murmured in his ear before giving it a little nip and then a lick. She loved to tease him; he loved to be teased. It was an agreeable arrangement for the both of them.

Edward kissed his way down her throat, to her beautiful breasts. Her muttered protests at losing his lips died away the instant his mouth closed over her nipple. Once more, her back arched up gracefully, demanding more of him. Her need for him was as honest and overwhelming as his was for her. That fact never failed to amaze him. Somehow, she had found something in him worthy of loving.

Maybe, just maybe, he was more man than beast, more human than monster.

He lingered over the soft flesh of her belly, kissing it tenderly. A vision of her flashed through his head, rounded and heavy and gravid. His child... To his shock, the thought did not conjure up the usual images of terror and cruelty. Instead, for just a moment, he pictured a little girl with Isabella's eyes and his mother's hair, dancing in a square of sunlight that shone in her window. The girl's laughter followed him as he placed one last soft kiss on Isabella's belly.

She tugged at his hair when he licked up between her legs. It was a small pain, purely instinctive on her part. Then her hands gentled and he slipped his tongue inside of her, savoring the taste of her. Slowly, tenderly, he made love to her with his mouth, showing her how much he loved her, how much he needed her.

When at last he moved back up her body and prepared to slide into her, she smiled and kissed him, taking her own essence with the kiss. He groaned at the sensuality of the kiss. She twisted slightly, her hand moving to the bedside table where they kept the condoms.

He hovered over her, shaking with the emotions that buffeted him. He felt invincible and vulnerable at the same time. He knew what he wanted to do; he just was not sure that he had the courage. He kissed her again and let his cock nudge at her entrance. Bare. Nothing between the heated silk of her body and the aching hardness of his. He felt her startle and then heard her sigh, tasted it on his lips.

Change had come, and Edward accepted that maybe change wasn't always bad. Isabella had been a change in his life, a chance he had taken, a risk _she_ had taken. Just before he slid home inside of her, she pulled away. "Are you sure?" she asked softly. As always, she knew when to push and when to let him lead the way. He needed to take control of this, needed that as much as he needed her.

He was terrified, that he could not deny. But it was time. He was tired of the fear and the doubt. Isabella had courage and certainty enough for both of them. He nodded once, his breathing jerky, his heart feeling as if it was pounding in his throat...his cock...

He groaned as he pushed inside of her. For the first time in his life, he felt the pure, simple sensation of being inside a woman. Not just any woman, but his Isabella. She cried out and wrapped her arms and legs around him. He thrust mindlessly, somehow trusting that she would keep them safe. It was so much more..._everything_ like this. It was heat and silk and fire and Isabella and nothing between them, no barriers, no ghosts.

Leaning up on his elbows, he watched her face as he claimed a part of him that had been dormant. Slowly, he gained courage as her hips met his. The sweet rhythm became faster, harder – and it was wonderful.

"I'm...I'm gonna..." The words were cut off by a groan as he felt his world explode. His seed pulsed out of him, into her. A part of him inside her. His Isabella. And for once, the thought was pleasing to him.

She tumbled after him, clutching at him, and somehow the simple lack of a condom between them had increased the intimacy of their joining a thousand times over.

When he finally collapsed against her, spent and yet somehow triumphant, she kissed him over and over again. Her lips were the slightest pressure, lighting here and there. "I love you, Edward," she told him as she held him. "I won't ever let you be alone again."

He fell asleep right there, in her arms, and the monster slept too, relegated to a distant place that Edward could no longer see.

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

Edward tried not to shudder as the guard searched him. It wasn't the touch of the guard, who was, after all, just doing his job. It was the knowledge that just a few dozen feet away, his father was waiting. He turned and caught Isabella's eyes. She didn't smile, but her gaze alone was enough to steady him. He took a deep breath and nodded, answering the unspoken question he saw in her face.

She nodded too, the serenity of her expression belied by the way she clutched at her purse. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, and then repeated the process. Edward tried to focus on her hands, those strong capable hands that loved him so tenderly, touching him in all the right ways. They had made love in the hotel room that morning and it was as if she was giving him her strength. Today, he would face his father for the first time in fifteen years. He hadn't seen him or heard his voice since that day in the courtroom when he had testified against him.

Once the verdict had been given, Edward had walked out of the court, his aunt and uncle holding his hands. He had tried not to look back, but he had been running all these years.

The time for running was over.

He would make his stand here. Now. It would be over. And_ then_, he would not look back. He would not run. Not again.

The guard was giving him instructions and Edward nodded mindlessly. He had nothing on him that could be used as a weapon, and his father had supposedly been a model prisoner for ten years now. There had been a few "unfortunate incidences" according to his counselor at the beginning of his incarceration. Edward found the earnest young man laughably naïve if he thought Edward Masen was rehabilitated, but hadn't commented on it.

His father was dying, as the eager young Mr. Newell had repeated over and over again. Edward wasn't sure if he was supposed to care. He had had to laugh when Mr. Newell asked if Edward had any thoughts on being an orphan soon. Edward had looked at him and said blandly, "I've been an orphan since I was fourteen. I expect there's no more adjusting to do."

Mr. Newell had suddenly remembered that he had other things to do. Edward and Isabella had both been relieved.

As Edward listened to the guard wrap up his little spiel, he saw Isabella get to her feet. She wrapped her fingers around his hand, and hers was cool and clammy. He leaned in and kissed her, reassuring _her_ for once. It felt good to be the strong one.

"Will you be okay?" she asked quietly.

He smiled, somewhat amazed that he had it in him to do so. Oddly, a strange sense of purpose and strength filled him. He felt as if all the years he had struggled with his past had led him to this moment, this singular confrontation with evil. When it was over, he had no doubt he would emerge the victor.

"I'll be fine," he promised and her eyes widened at the assurance in his voice. Then she smiled and tilted her head to study him.

"You will be, won't you?" she murmured. Then her smile was blinding, bigger and brighter than anything he had ever seen. "And there you are, the Edward I knew was there."

"Thanks to you," he said, and gave her another kiss simply because he liked doing so. "So yes, no matter what happens in there, I will be fine."

"Go on then, get it over with, and I'll be waiting right here," Isabella promised. "And after that, we'll drive out to see my Dad."

"I'm looking forward to it," he said, though in truth he was now much more nervous about meeting _her_ father than his. His father was safely locked up; hers carried a gun.

Her lips quirked as if she guessed his thoughts and he mused that perhaps she had. Isabella Swan was a bit of a mind reader.

The sound of a door sliding open and clanging into place made him turn. He felt her squeeze his hand one last time and then he was walking down a corridor, his steps making sounds that echoed and rang.

Another door opened and then closed behind him. And then another. Finally, he was standing before a reinforced steel door with a small security window. He heard the sound of the locks disengage and the guard opened it. He took a step inside, cautious but not fearful.

He took a deep breath when he realized it was empty and felt strangely let down. Edward sat down and put his hands on the table. And waited.

An eternity later, the door opened again and he heard the shuffling steps and slight clanking of chains that told him his father had arrived. He looked up and met the eyes of the monster.

For a moment, Edward merely blinked in confusion. Standing before him was a frail old man, his hair white and thin, hanging in unsightly wisps around his gaunt face, the skin yellow and lined. The hands that were cuffed in front of the figure were gnarled and misshapen with arthritis. Edward fought the urge to laugh.

The monster was a sick old man. Powerless. Defeated. A ghost.

Looking up, Edward caught his eyes and took a deep breath. The monster was there, in those cold, calculating eyes. Those were the same eyes that had bored into him, trying to taunt him into taking the knife to his mother's flesh. Those were the eyes that Edward had seen in the courtroom, dispassionately accepting a life sentence in prison.

"You came," Edward Masen said with a shrug.

"You asked me to," Edward Cullen replied.

Masen sat down in the chair with a groan, the chains jangling in protest. "Why not? I've got nothing better to do." He gave a bark of laughter.

Edward remained silent for a moment, felt the cold eyes of his father taking inventory. Then Masen reached into the pocket of his eye-searing orange jumpsuit and pulled out a package of cigarettes. He motioned to the guard, who lit the cigarette with a look of distaste on his face.

Masen inhaled deeply and then coughed. "You look like your mother," he said in an accusing voice, as if Edward had personally offended him.

"Thank you," Edward replied politely.

Masen's face grew sly. "You smell like pussy, boy."

Edward remained silent.

"Are _you_ a pussy or are you _getting_ pussy, that's the question," Masen said, showing all of his yellow teeth in a wide grin.

"Is there a point to all of this?" Edward asked.

"Did you bring some sweet little piece with you; give her a thrill by telling her she could meet your famous Daddy?" Masen's voice sneered and taunted.

"You're hardly anything to brag about," Edward pointed out.

"I can smell her on you, boy," Masen said quietly, taking another drag from his cigarette. The guard shifted on his feet. "You smell like pussy and weakness."

Edward got to his feet. "I guess we're done here," he said.

Masen laughed and leaned back in his chair. "So you've got a little bit of spine, anyway," he noted. "Sit down. This won't take long."

Edward looked at the guard who merely waited impassively. Then Edward sat down.

"What do you want?" Edward finally asked.

Masen grinned. "I just wanted to see my baby boy," he said mockingly. "I'm a dying man and a dying man has a right to see his only son, doesn't he?"

"You tried to kill me," Edward pointed out. "I hardly think a family reunion is in order."

Masen waved his hands dismissively and smoke wafted around the little room. "If you would have done as you were told we could have avoided that little misunderstanding." Masen shook his head. "A son should listen to his father." Masen had the nerve to sound disgruntled.

Unable to help himself, Edward laughed. He had forgotten how his father viewed the world, completely removed from reality. The universe revolved around Edward Masen as he saw it. Nothing else, and no_ one_ else, mattered.

"Well, you've seen me," Edward said.

"You look too much like your mother," Masen observed again. "It's very much a disappointment to me. Sons should look like their fathers."

"Lucky me," Edward quipped. He wanted to get back to Isabella. He wanted to take her to bed and bathe himself in her light and warmth. He wanted to walk away from this room and never think about his father again.

Masen's expression grew cruel. "Your mother was a cunt, you know, just an interfering cunt who was figuring out things that were none of her business," Masen said. "I should have done her first, that snooping little bitch. Should have sliced her up nice and pretty and then brought you up right."

Edward surged to his feet once more and began walking toward the door. It took the guard a moment to fumble with the door, alerting the outside guard. Edward didn't turn to look back at his father, but he could not block out his words.

"You're just like your mother," Masen said. "Weak, spineless...you should have been a useless girl...I'm ashamed to call you my son."

"Then don't," Edward said in a low voice. The door finally opened and Edward stumbled out.

"She was just a cunt, boy. They're all nothing but cunts, only good for fucking or killing..." Then the door closed and his father's voice and mocking laughter was cut off. Forever.

Edward felt himself calming as he walked away from the room and toward Isabella. When he caught sight of her, his breath came freely again, his heart calmed its frantic rhythm. Then he was in her arms and holding her tightly.

"I'm done here," he whispered and meant it with every fiber of his being. "Let's go."

She didn't speak, just nodded and squeezed him tightly. Then she led him out of the darkness and into the light of the day that waited.

Edward didn't look back.

He didn't run.

Those days were over.

_**Also, thank you for all the offers of help with ASL. I've got what I needed, so thank you all so much.**_


	17. Chapter 17

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

Author's Note: There is one more post in this story. Thank you so much for reading!

**Chapter 17**

"_**Love never reasons but profusely gives; gives, like a thoughtless prodigal, its all, and trembles lest it has done too little." ~Hannah More**_

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

They had barely made it inside the hotel room before Edward had Isabella pinned against the wall, his hips moving against hers as his lips and tongue began their tender assault on her mouth. Isabella didn't seem to mind in the least, if anything her own heat seemed to fuel his. Her hands were as urgent on his body as his were on hers. "Bella," he whispered. "Need you."

"Then have me," she answered. They stumbled, walked, fell onto the bed behind him. It was less than graceful, and Edward was sure they would both be sporting some bruises tomorrow, but their need was too great for finesse. That could come later, after the immediacy of their desire had been sated.

As he sank into her, he murmured her name over and over again, almost as if it was a prayer. Perhaps it was; _his_ prayer. She had saved him, after all.

When he came, it made his world explode. He emptied everything he was, every burden he carried, into his Isabella. She followed after him, clutching at him tightly, accepting all of it without question or protest. When he could finally draw an easy breath, he rolled halfway off of her, unwilling to lose all of their connection to each other. Her arms held him close, hands running down his sweaty back, her lips whispering words of love into his ear. He could want nothing more than what she offered, couldn't imagine any fate that was happier.

After a long silence, during which the afternoon sun began to sink in the sky and the shadows of twilight filled the small room, he blinked. "I just walked out," he finally said. "I walked away from him."

"You always were stronger than he was," Isabella said. "You just needed to see it for yourself."

He kissed her then, simply to savor her taste. "I'd always thought I'd make some big speech, tell him what I thought of him...something like that." He laughed softly. "But in the end, I didn't need to. I just needed to...walk away. I was done with him."

"You snipped the last thread that held you to him," Isabella ventured. "It was so fine that it almost didn't exist anymore. You just made sure it didn't."

"I suppose I did," Edward said with a note of wonder. "I couldn't have done that before you."

"You would have found a way," Isabella assured him, but Edward knew differently. She had changed him at the most basic level, almost as if she had reached into his cells and rewritten his DNA itself. He also knew that she wouldn't believe him if he shared that truth with her, so he kept it to himself because it was enough that _he_ knew.

Edward sighed and then inhaled the sweet scent of her hair. "He was disappointed in me," he confessed with a sense of giddy relief. "Said I was too much like my mother." In the gloom, their eyes met and they laughed together, finding the dark humor in it. Isabella gave a little snort and buried her face in his neck.

She breathed deeply, a sound of contentment and ease. Edward realized that_ he_ had given her that, and as imperfect and flawed as he was, he was still perfect for Isabella Swan. "We should leave early tomorrow," she said softly.

"What time is your father expecting us?" Edward asked, and the anxiety returned. Charles Swan had every reason to hate him, though he knew that Isabella would never put him in that kind of situation. She seemed at ease with her father's reaction to him, so Edward knew he would trust in her.

"Sometime after lunch," she said. "I talked to him while you were back there with Masen." It was easier to think of him like that, as Masen. Not his father, not Edward _anything_. Just Masen. A stranger. A monster who no longer mattered.

"Does your father..." Edward paused. "How does your father feel about me?"

"You mean what does he think about the fact that you're nailing me on a regular basis?" she teased.

Edward sighed, his more solemn nature giving a twinge when she insisted on joking. Isabella rolled her eyes at him, obviously reading him correctly. She leaned up on one elbow and placed a loud kiss on his lips, then his nose, and finally his forehead. "So serious..." she teased.

"Isabella," he said sternly. She was not impressed and made a face to tell him so.

"I see the comedy portion of our evening is over," she mocked.

"Isabella."

"Edward," she retorted. "See? I can be serious too." Then she stuck out her tongue to prove herself wrong. Then she sighed and kissed him again, tenderly and sweetly in contrition. "Edward, honestly, do you think I'd suggest you two meeting if my father was going to have a hostile attitude?"

That was really the crux of the matter and Edward knew it. In all things Isabella protected him. He was the man and physically stronger, but in all other ways, Isabella had the strength that he had always lacked. Until now. Now she was teaching him, showing him, guiding him.

If she considered him an avenging angel, then she was his guardian.

"No," he whispered, giving her his absolute trust yet again. He cradled her close. "You've always been on my side."

"_Our_ side," she corrected gently. "It's only your side when I want to kick your ass for being so damned stubborn."

He winced at that, knowing how often he tried her patience with his rigid ways. He would never be totally free of his inclinations toward order, but there would always be Isabella who would lure him into chaos and freedom with her easy laughter and generous heart.

Edward laughed then, feeling carefree and young for the first time since had been Edward Masen. He rolled over, pinning her gently beneath him and not even fearing that the monster would make an appearance and hurt his Isabella. The monster had been put to rest as best he could, and time would finish the healing. Time and Isabella.

"You know," he murmured, taking her nipple into his mouth. "I really like making love without a condom."

She arched and cried out and when she settled, she teased back, "You do, huh?"

"I think it bears further investigation anyway," he informed her.

"Without a doubt," she agreed.

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

They pulled up into the driveway. Isabella had taken the wheel when they stopped at the last rest stop, saying it was just easier for her to get them there than for him to worry about missing a turn. In truth, he was sure she had seen he was nervous and was giving him time to gather his composure. She turned off the engine and turned slightly to face him. She lightly caressed his cheek. "I love you, you know that, right?"

He nodded, unable to speak.

Then she grinned. "I'm just warning you, if my Dad is cleaning his gun or something, it's got nothing to do with that freak at the prison and everything to do with the weapon you're hiding in your jeans... Dad, being a father, isn't all that fond of dicks being around his precious baby girl."

And just like that, most of his anxiety was gone. He was just a man meeting his girlfriend's father for the first time. There were nerves, but they were the regular-guy kind, the manageable kind.

He laughed. "Okay." She nodded. They took a deep breath together and she waited for him to open his door and come around to her side. "Thank you," he whispered, giving her hand a quick squeeze. It couldn't hurt to show her father that he had manners, and he had seen the curtain twitching and knew her father was watching them...watching him.

Edward knew he would have done the same.

The door opened and a slender man stepped out onto the porch. Isabella had his eyes and her face was the same shape, they sported the same dark, wavy hair. "Daddy!" she yelled and launched herself up the steps and slammed into her father. Charles Swan's eyes closed as he hugged his daughter close.

"Don't stay away so long next time," he grumbled.

"I love you too, Daddy," Isabella teased.

Charlie grunted and his eyes went to Edward. "You must be Edward Cullen," he said, walking down the steps and holding out his hand. His eyes were measuring but not hard, just the eyes of a father meeting a man who had become important to his daughter. Edward hadn't passed Charlie's test just yet, but he knew he would.

"Yes, sir," Edward replied politely.

Charlie wrapped and arm around Isabella, who was holding Edward's hand. "It takes a brave man to love this one," Charlie said with affectionate exasperation.

"You're telling me, sir," Edward answered with a little smile.

"Still here," Isabella reminded them tartly.

"Why don't you come inside and we can sit down and have a little chat about all of Bella's perfect imperfections?" Charlie offered.

Edward followed them up the stairs and into the house.

_** ~ Bad Blood~**_

They sat in the living room and Edward allowed father and daughter to begin the conversation. Isabella seemed to jump from one topic to another but Charlie kept up without difficulty. Edward could only guess that Charlie was used to Isabella's rather random trains of thought. It was, as Charlie said, just another of her perfect imperfections. Already, it seemed, there was much on which Edward and Charlie could agree.

Finally, when Isabella rose and walked to the kitchen, Charlie stared into the fire for a long moment. Edward knew that they had been maneuvered into a private moment. He also knew that neither he nor Charlie was going to argue the fact, especially not with the headstrong woman they each loved in their own way.

Charlie cleared his throat. "Bells told me that you went to the prison to see Masen."

"It was time," was all Edward could say by way of explanation. But Charles Swan nodded as if he understood.

"A man has to let go of the past," Charlie observed in a quiet voice. "If he's gonna make anything of his future."

"Isabella is rather good at that," Edward mused. "And making me do it too."

Charlie gave a little snort of laughter and shook his head. "Still gives me a kick to hear you call her Isabella. She hasn't let anyone do that since she was two years old."

It made Edward feel warm to think that he had something of her that no one else was allowed. A name was a very important thing, as he knew too well. Names could both define and defile. 

Still staring into the fireplace, which did quite well at cutting the damp chill of the air, Charlie said quietly, "My father was a drunk."

That was all he said and Edward waited. And waited.

Charlie looked at him at last and gave him a crooked smile. "A mean drunk at that. He hit my mother just because he could, pissed away his paychecks until we were always on the run from one landlord or another. My mother cried herself to sleep more nights than not."

"I'm sorry." Edward could well understand the burden of a father like that. Or worse. So much worse.

Charlie shrugged. "I never had my first drink until I was twenty seven years old," he said. "The night Renee left me."

Edward could only remain silent.

Turning to catch Edward's eyes, Charlie smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. "I was so afraid of turning into my father that I went a little overboard. Thought taking a drink made me a drunk. Thought it was in my blood, you see."

This was a concept Edward could see only too well and he gave a cautious nod.

"Then I figured out that I was still giving my father power over me, long after he was dead and gone." Charlie shrugged once more. "So for the past few years, every now and then I have a drink. But I confess I'm still careful." His mouth turned down at the corners. "I didn't have my second drink until the night the cops showed up at my door to tell me that Renee was dead. Professional courtesy brought them here, once they saw she'd been married to a cop. Usually, it would have been up to Phil, her husband, to call me. But they came in here and sat down on the couch that was in the same place as the one you're sitting on, and they told me what'd been done to her."

Edward swallowed hard.

"I got drunk that night, the one and only time in my life," Charlie continued. "Puking my guts up drunk. And I told my father to fuck off as I did. He didn't hear me; he'd been buried for years by that time. But it still felt good." He laughed then. He looked at Edward, his eyes old and far too knowledgeable about the evil the world held. "I have to tell you that I was against Bella looking you up."

Edward started to protest but Charlie just continued talking.

"Not because I was worried that you'd be like him," Charlie said with an emphatic shake of his head. "No, that wasn't even on my radar, Edward. What I worried about...well, I guess a father always worries when his daughter says she's off to chase down a man he's never met." Charlie grinned and this time his eyes mirrored the gesture. "But the other thing that gnawed at me was a worry of another kind." He looked at Edward intently. "I worried about you, son, about what her interference would do to you."

"I don't understand." Edward had been cast adrift yet again by a Swan. He was growing rather used to the feeling.

"And a part of me was jealous that I'd never worked up the courage to find you myself and thank you."

If Charlie had confessed to wearing women's underwear, Edward couldn't have been more surprised at that moment.

"What you did son...that's rare. That's real courage, that was _real_ honor, not the shit that the politicians blather on about. Real honor...that's so rare I'm not sure I've ever seen it action myself. Not until I saw skinny kid walk out of a courtroom, still scarred from what his father had done to him, still shocked by his mother's death. When I heard Bella had found you, and I heard that something in her voice, I knew...I knew I'd been wrong."

"Wrong?"

Charlie gave a sad little smile and a shake of his head. "You see, I'd always been convinced that there wasn't a man in the world who was worthy of my little girl. But she proved me wrong, as she so often does, and she found you. And you, Edward, are the kind of man a father can entrust his daughter with...and still sleep at night, knowing she's loved by someone who deserves her."

Then Charlie Swan looked at the fire, obviously done talking.

And that, as far as Charlie was concerned, put the matter to rest.


	18. Chapter 18

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

**Chapter 18**

"_**Happiness is like a butterfly which, when pursued, is always beyond our grasp, but, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you." ~Nathaniel Hawthorne**_

_** ~Bad Blood~**_

Edward Cullen was still a man who liked schedules. A year after his very first face-to-face conversation with Charles Swan, Edward watched as that man walked their Isabella down a church aisle and then put her hand in his. She was eleven minutes late walking down that aisle. Edward knew she had done it on purpose when she winked at him. He sighed, knowing she would never allow him to fall completely into his old, rigid ways. He could only send up a little prayer of thanksgiving for it.

Later, when they returned from their honeymoon, they would discover that Edward Masen had died on the day that they married. It was fitting somehow, and the best gift they could have gotten. That's what Isabella said anyway and Edward was inclined to believe her. The three of them, Edward and Isabella and Barney built a very comfortable life. Edward still preferred order to chaos, and Isabella still preferred chaos to order. Barney preferred hot dogs to green beans.

Somehow, they made it work.

Every morning when he woke up to see Isabella cradled in his arms, he felt a renewed sense of wonder. He could barely recall that man who had thought it better to fulfill the promise of an hour than to break the vow of a lifetime. Now he was happy to keep those vows every single day of his life. Isabella had saved him, in every way a man could be saved. If the father had broken his marriage vows in the most horrific way possible, the son kept them in the most sacred.

Two years after they joined their lives legally, they watched a wonder unfold as their lives were further bound in flesh and blood. They had a daughter, a tiny human being who both terrified and thrilled Edward with her sweet-smelling innocence and absolute trust in them. Sloane Marie Cullen was a miracle, and Edward never forgot it.

He was a doting father, as all of their friends observed. He got up in the middle of the night; he changed diapers without complaint; he took their daughter to the park while her mother wrote tales to enchant any child. Now she had a most specific audience of one, and if the story passed little Sloane's inspection, they Isabella considered it good to send to her publisher. Miss Cullen had the most discerning taste and Isabella took her advice seriously.

Things changed, but Edward would always be a man who preferred order.

Yes, Edward still appreciated the comforting predictability of schedules. His daughter, Sloane seemed to thrive on them as well. So for three years Edward and Sloane and Bella moved through life as the schedule dictated. Sloane was born on her due date, turned over, smiled, and got her first tooth exactly on the schedule that the baby books told Edward to expect. She walked and talked just as and when expected. She was neither fussy nor apathetic, but displayed a healthy curiosity and joy in life. She was a happy baby, quietly content with her little world.

Her father blithely assumed that all babies were so accommodating and often mused aloud that other parents must be doing something wrong when they complained about the hardships of having a child. Isabella seemed amused by it all, and in her eyes a secret glinted. She knew something he did not, as she so often did.

What that might be, Edward could not guess, but he was content to wait. Isabella, as she had always done, soon tugged him out of his little orbit and broadened his horizons yet again. She had some help this time.

Edward Cullen was a man who longed for a schedule. His son, Timothy Charles, however, was not. Timothy thrived on chaos, chased after recklessness, and seemed to invite disorder with his mere existence. There hovered around him a little cloud of unpredictability and general unruliness. He was the secret that had glimmered in his mother's eyes. As she so often did, she had foreseen that one day this little boy would arrive and into their lives he would bring his reckless joy in life and living every moment to its fullest potential. Timothy Cullen never met a challenge he didn't like. Or a bookshelf he didn't want to climb.

Sometimes, Edward would watch his cautious daughter and his reckless son and he would ponder that they were their parents in reverse. Sloane had her father's green eyes and messy bronze hair. In fact, she looked remarkably like her paternal grandmother and Edward liked to think that Sloane was his mother's way of saying that she loved them and that she approved.

Timothy, or Timmy the Terror, as Isabella had dubbed him, was all unruly brown curls and wide brown eyes. Timmy arrived three weeks early, throwing Edward's carefully constructed schedule out the window from the start. He might want a bottle every hour or sleep for six hours in a row. The first time he slept through two feedings, Edward checked on him every ten minutes, fearful that he would find the tiny boy not breathing in his crib. Timmy liked apricots one day and threw them on the floor the next. He talked early and walked late. Potty training had been an exercise in frustration until Timmy decided it was time to be done with diapers and then the deed was accomplished in a day. He liked to dress himself and he preferred colors that the uninformed felt didn't match. He liked to wear galoshes with shorts and cowboy boots with his pajamas. He insisted on sleeping with a toy light saber tucked under his pillow. He informed his parents that when he grew up he wanted to be a planet, or perhaps a star in a distant sky. Timmy planned big. His kindergarten teacher once told Edward, with a mixture of admiration and exasperation, that young Timmy had a "unique way of looking at the world." Timmy insisted that one day, cats would rule the world and be the dominant species. Barney begged to differ.

Barney was Timmy's best friend and patiently endured it when Timmy declared Barney his "horsey" and pretended to ride him as Barney sprawled on the living room floor. Of course, that was before Timmy saw jousting on the History Channel. Even Barney had his limits, so he would slink away and hide somewhere that Timothy would never find him. Barney preferred not to be a knight's steed, even if that knight was Timothy the Terror. Even Edward and Isabella couldn't discover his hiding place and Barney wasn't telling. A dog had to have _some_ secrets, after all, especially an old one.

Charlie Swan had been thrilled to have a grandson named after him. Carlisle _Timothy_ Cullen had been happy about it too. Though Sloane and Timothy eventually knew that Esme and Carlisle were not really their grandparents, they called them Nana and Papa and no one complained about the arrangement. In every way that counted, Esme and Carlisle had earned the titles. Charlie taught Carlisle the best fishing spots when the couple visited him. Carlisle treated Charlie to a weekend of deep sea fishing. Each was secretly convinced that he was the better fisherman.

It was Esme's suggestion that they move closer to Edward and Isabella and they did so just a few months after Sloane's birth. When Charlie realized how little he would see his grandchildren if he stayed in Forks, he moved closer as well. Everyone was just close enough to be available and not so close that Bella felt a need to lock the door and pretend not to be home. It was a happy arrangement for all concerned.

Sloane and Timothy grew up happy and healthy, though of course their lives weren't perfect. When Edward and Isabella deemed them old enough, they told them the story of Edward Masen and Elizabeth Sloane and Renee Dwyer and how Isabella and Edward had come to meet. Sloane thought it was romance incarnate, and her little brother teased her mercilessly about it. Timothy thought it would have been far more interesting to have a rock star in the family. Neither of them felt any particular emotion toward a man they would never know or meet. He was, to them, a distant figure in a true crime book that had little bearing on their lives. Edward was glad to see that, for sometimes he still struggled with the demons his own guilt liked to conjure up. Isabella would soothe and cajole, and finally kick his ass if he didn't come out of his funk on his own. As she had always done, she could read him with a glance and then give him exactly what he needed. When it was an ass kicking, that was what she provided.

And he loved her for it.

Sloane grew up to become an FBI profiler and for some reason that always amused Isabella. Edward never truly got the humor in the situation, but he laughed anyway. It was impossible not to laugh with Isabella. Timothy became an artist, tapping into some creative genius that might or might not have come from the man they never talked about. Or perhaps his mother's skill with words had translated into a visual gift for young Tim. If he _did _come into his artist talent from Masen, it was the only thing he had inherited from his paternal grandparent, and Edward learned to accept it instead of fear it. In time, he could only be proud of his son's accomplishments and, for the most part, quit worrying about whatever else might have tagged along on that creative gene.

He had nothing to worry about. Tim was most definitely Isabella's son, happy and carefree, finding joy in the smallest things. He made a decent living as an artist, though he was never famous. Still, he supported himself doing what he loved best and that was enough. Eventually, he married a lovely young woman who had no links to a serial killer, though Tim often noted that it would have made for an interesting coincidence. He had a fine sense of the ridiculous. They raised three happy children in a household that was loud and cluttered and thoroughly joyful.

His sister found some fame in certain circles, as a profiler becoming something of an expert in, of all things, serial killers. Once, someone tried to embarrass her by digging up the information about Edward Masen and revealing Sloane's link to one of the very monsters she profiled. Sloane simply shrugged and dismissed the gossip and it soon died away. She wasn't proud of her lineage, but neither was she ashamed of it. It simply was, and as far as she was concerned, it was nothing more than ancient history. Her father had taught her better than that; he had told her to hold her head high and be the best person she could be. No matter what, Sloane was confident in the love of her family. She married too, and had a son she named Edward. Young Edward and his grandfather had a special bond and Isabella liked to tease him that the younger version of him was pretty much a clone. Both Edwards considered it a compliment. They bore Isabella's gentle teasing with good humor.

Isabella and Edward grew old together. They loved, they argued, they raised their children. They honored the mothers they had lost by living their lives to the fullest.

And Edward Cullen proved, beyond all doubt, that he was his mother's son.


	19. FGB Excerpt

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

_**I have written a little outtake from this story for the Fandom Gives Back for Lymphoma and Leukemia. This is a cause that is very personal to me, as my grandmother, who raised me, died of lymphoma in 1982. Below is a prayer that my grandfather wrote for her as she was dying. There is also a teaser for the outtake. I hope you will give to this cause if you are able, and if you are not, I would ask for your well wishes for this effort. Thank you.**_

**A Prayer for My Lover**

Dear God, in Thy infinite wisdom, see fit to heal my darling. We need our lady so much. If Thy plans call for taking her, then let me hold her tenderly and one last time, let me hold her close and kiss away the hurt in those beautiful blue eyes. Let my tears wash away the tiredness of months of suffering; let me cherish her always. Then Lord, take her gently for I shall be a reluctant giver. Then carry her to Your side on the silk wings of angels and Dear Lord, I ask not for heavenly music, but let me hear "Love is a Many Splendored Thing." I ask, Oh Lord, that you would let me see an extra set of footprints in my mind's eye so that she and I walk on this land. Let me dream of all the days we shared and cherished and this to go on forever. Dear God, protect my love. We need her.

Amen

**New Blood**

They were lying on their bed, tangled in a mass of limbs. Of all the moments Edward spent with Isabella, these were some of his favorites. There was an intimacy in the quietness and stillness, the languid movements and soft murmurs of sated lovers, the gentle touches as the urgency of their need faded into a satisfied glow. Isabella was the only woman he had shared such moments with; she was the only woman with whom he ever would.

He was content with the arrangement.

She was sprawled on the bed, her head resting on his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest and belly in movements that were almost, but not quite, ticklish. He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled deeply, enjoying the unique scent of her. Isabella pressed a kiss to his ribs and then over his heart. "Edward?" she said softly.

"Yes?"

"I want a baby," she whispered, looking up at him. "I want _your_ baby...inside of me."

He stared at her for a moment, struggling against the old fears. Then he smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Okay," he replied simply.

She squealed with triumphant laughter and immediately straddled him. Barney, who had decided it might be safe to take up his customary place on the bed once again, gave them a look of canine exasperation and trotted away from the door as if fearful of what his eyes might see. Isabella pressed kisses all over Edward's face. "We're going to make such a beautiful baby," she said.

**You can read excerpts from many authors here:**

**fandom4lls. blogspot(dot)com /p/ author-teasers (dot) html**


	20. New Blood

I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

**Author's Note: This is an outtake/sequel/epilogue of sorts from "Bad Blood." It was originally written for the Leukemia/Lymphoma Fandom Gives Back. I hope you enjoy another quick visit with these characters! I know I did. **

**New Blood**

They were lying on their bed, tangled in a mass of limbs. Of all the moments Edward spent with Isabella, these were some of his favorites. There was an intimacy in the quietness and stillness, the languid movements and soft murmurs of sated lovers, the gentle touches as the urgency of their need faded into a satisfied glow. Isabella was the only woman he had shared such moments with; she was the only woman with whom he ever would.

He was content with the arrangement.

She was sprawled on the bed, her head resting on his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest and belly in movements that were almost, but not quite, ticklish. He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled deeply, enjoying the unique scent of her. Isabella pressed a kiss to his ribs and then over his heart. "Edward?" she said softly.

"Yes?"

"I want a baby," she whispered, looking up at him. "I want _your_ baby...inside of me."

He stared at her for a moment, struggling against the old fears. Then he smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Okay," he replied simply.

She squealed with triumphant laughter and immediately straddled him. Barney, who had decided it might be safe to take up his customary place on the bed once again, gave them a look of canine exasperation and trotted away from the door as if fearful of what his eyes might see. Isabella pressed kisses all over Edward's face. "We're going to make such a beautiful baby," she said.

**~New Blood~**

He watched the play of passion on her face as he moved over her, inside of her. Their eyes met and he shuddered, feeling the power of what they shared surge through him. With a shout, he came inside of her, spilling his essence with abandon. Even as Isabella trembled with her own completion, she pulled him close, their heaving chests pressed to each other's. Her arms secured him to her.

Finally, he caught his breath and leaned up on one elbow to study her. Intuition made him still her when she shifted as if to move. "Hold on," he whispered. "For just a moment," he added in an urgent plea.

Her smile was bemused. "Why?"

He kissed her. "I think...I think we're making a baby," he confessed.

Isabella stilled.

_**~New Blood~**_

A few weeks later they were both trying not to stare at Edward's watch. Isabella could never be bothered to wear one, but Edward never went anywhere without his. It was accurate to within 1/60th of a second. But even those microseconds were dragging by with shocking slowness. Finally, he heaved a sigh and looked at his wife.

"Okay," he said. "It's time."

"You look," she said, pressing the plastic stick into his hand. "I can't."

"You should be the one to look," he insisted, pushing her hand back toward her without opening her fingers to take a peek.

"No," she said. "I want you to look." She sounded strangely adamant and Edward wanted to sigh in resignation. There was no budging Isabella on an issue once she had dug in her heels. Ever. He knew that well enough since he had tried. Often. And always failed.

He looked. He knew. He knew that they were going to have a child. And, for the rest of his life, he would love that child.

He smiled at her. "Why?" he asked, holding up the little piece of plastic that had changed their lives.

Isabella returned his smile, looking both mysterious and wise. "Because I want to tell our child that you were the very first person in the world to know they existed."

"And you were the second," he whispered.

They kissed and laughed and kissed some more. Barney chuffed. No one knew what Baby Cullen did to celebrate the moment.

_** ~New Blood~**_

Isabella was sitting on the couch, methodically pulling apart Oreos. She would lick the creamy frosting from the cookies and then put the chocolate shells in a growing pile on her belly. Edward watched her with a growing sense of awe and disgust. "That can't be healthy for you," he observed quietly.

She continued twisting, licking, stacking. Every now and then she would toss a cookie to Barney, who wagged his appreciation. Isabella shrugged. "Tastes good though," she countered.

"It's...gross," Edward ventured.

"Don't knock it until you've tried it," Isabella suggested with a scowl.

The baby kicked and the stack of Oreo cookies listed to the side and then tumbled down. Barney cleaned up the mess. "Don't let him eat all of those," Isabella said anxiously.

Dutifully, Edward picked up the rest of them, ignoring Barney's accusing stare. "He shouldn't be eating chocolate at all."

Isabella frowned. "I'm not sure this really counts as chocolate," she said.

"Still..." 

"Then you throw them away and try to ignore those pitiful brown eyes," Isabella said and Barney wiggled at the loving tone of her voice, somehow sensing she was talking about him. Barney shot Edward another disgruntled look.

"Y_ou_ could eat them," Edward ventured.

Isabella made a face. "_That's_ disgusting."

Edward gave up trying to understand the vagaries of the pregnant appetite. Barney gave him a look that told him to mind his own business.

_** ~New Blood~**_

Edward stood in the living room, anxiously shifting from foot to foot, his keys whirling on his finger. Isabella looked up from her Oreo destruction. "Where are you going?" she asked, with a pointed look at the dark, night time sky outside their windows.

"I'm going to put gas in the car," he said. "Will you be okay here for about twenty minutes?"

She shot him a look of amusement. "I think I'll manage," she said. "But why not wait until morning?"

Edward gave her an exasperated look and rolled his eyes. Isabella laughed because that was_ her_ move. "Because," he said, and she practically heard the 'duh' in his voice. "The baby's due tomorrow and I don't want to get caught with only half a tank of gas."

"Edward," Isabella said patiently. "First of all, only five percent of babies actually arrive on their due dates. You remember that right?"

He nodded, but was clearly unconvinced. She was well acquainted with his "Let's humor the pregnant lady" routine.

"And second of all, the hospital is only fifteen minutes away," she added, her lips quirking.

"Seventeen and a half," he corrected. "And that's not taking into account rush hour traffic, which means the trip takes twenty three minutes."

Her lips trembled and the Oreo tower shook on her belly. "All right then, worst case scenario...twenty three minutes." She patted the couch beside her. "So even if – and it's a big if – the baby arrives on her due date, we have plenty of gas to get us to the hospital. Even at rush hour."

Edward sat down gingerly and put the keys in his pocket. His hand worried at them for a few minutes while he watched Isabella lick the frosting from the Oreos. Her words were rational, but there was no harm in being sure. "I'll be right back," he finally said, unable to endure it any longer and surging to his feet.

Isabella laughed and shook her head, but waved him out the door.

_** ~New Blood~**_

Early the next morning, he was not surprised to feel Isabella's hand on his shoulder. "Edward," she hissed. "It's time...I think."

He calmly got out of bed, put on his watch and gathered up the keys that were on the night stand. "You get dressed while I let Barney out," he said, his voice smooth and soothing.

Isabella, who had started to feel a little anxious, took one look at his calm expression and breathed in deeply. "Okay," she said. He centered her, as much as she did him. That was what made them work. She felt her fears fall away from her, leaving only a sense of anticipation.

Edward pulled on his pants and shrugged into a tee-shirt as he called for Barney. The dog jumped off the couch and wagged his tail in joy at this change in his routine. His ear stood at attention as he waited for Edward to open the back door.

Letting the dog out, Edward sank to the floor. "Get it together, Cullen," he told himself. "You have to be calm...for Isabella."

As always, Isabella's love was his balm, his talisman against all darkness.

He would be calm, cool, and collected.

Even if it killed him.

_**~New Blood~**_

He could only stare at her for a long time. She was a tiny bit of humanity, too small to be real. A small tuft of reddish hair stood up on end, giving her a comical air at odds with the solemn expression on her little face. There was an innocent sort of wisdom in her face, both fresh and ancient at the same time.

"Do you want to hold her?" Isabella asked with a soft smile. It was a new smile, one he'd never seen on her face before. It was the sweet, proud smile of a mother.

"Yes," he said. "I want to hold her. But..." How to explain that for the first time in a long time, he felt unworthy of his life, of the gifts this little girl represented. Isabella had chosen him; but this child had had no choice in her father. No more than he had had. As always, there was no need for words because Isabella saw through every subterfuge and barrier.

Instead of pressing him, she turned her attention to their daughter. "I think..." She tilted her head as she studied little Sloane. "I think she looks like you...and your mother." Lifting her face again, Isabella smiled that brand new smile. "I think we chose the right name for her. Sloane Marie Cullen – it seems only right that she would be named after her grandmothers."

And that was all it took, that reminder that he was more than his father's spawn. He was his mother's son first and foremost. His mother would have wanted to see him happy. She had wanted him to live, after all.

_Run, Edward, run_...

Edward held out his hands and into them Isabella placed the infinitely precious bundle. Her weight was warm and lax against him; her trust in him was utterly pure. He vowed to himself that he would earn that trust every single day of his life. "She's..." He did not have the words, but Isabella did not need them. She already knew.

"Yes," she murmured. "She is."

Their eyes met, and yet again they were in perfect accord.

_**Twenty-nine years, seven months, and six days later...**_

Edward adjusted his tie. Again. He turned when he heard the door open and smiled to see Isabella studying him. When she reached him, she adjusted his tie and smoothed it. He looked into the mirror. It was perfect.

"You look very handsome," Isabella whispered, giving his cheek a kiss.

"I look old," he corrected.

Isabella grinned, still irrepressible, still beautiful. "No, we still have a few good years left in us," she told him with certainty. So he could not help but believe her.

"Is Sloane nervous?" he asked.

Isabella laughed and shook her head. "Not her, she's her father's daughter," Isabella replied. "She's cool, calm, and collected."

"I should have known she wouldn't get nervous, even on her wedding day," Edward observed.

"Not much makes her nervous," Isabella agreed. "Zach, on the other hand, is a wreck," she added with a little smirk.

"That bad, huh?"

"He's not even cracking jokes," Isabella said and nodded emphatically when Edward made a sound of disbelief.

It had been a shock to everyone when Sloane had fallen in love with a comedian. Literally. Zach had just signed a contract to be the opening act for a big name comic, and the future looked bright. On the surface, Zach and Sloane seemed an odd fit, but it had only taken Edward about thirty seconds of observing them to realize that Zach was to Sloane what Isabella was to him.

"Did Rachel get the girls settled?" Edward asked. Rachel, Tim's wife, was in charge of getting their two and three year old daughters dressed and ready to walk down in the aisle before their aunt. It was a challenging job, especially since the girls continuously tried to stay one step ahead of the other so that they could "be first" and therefore claim victory.

"They settled down fast enough when Sloane gave them the look she reserves for rowdy suspects," Isabella snorted with laughter.

"Ah yes, she's rather good at that," Edward noted. "Is Rachel feeling okay?" Rachel was about three weeks away from delivering her third child – a boy this time if the sonogram was correct. Tim was still campaigning to name the baby Houdini, since he claimed he didn't know how the little guy had come into existence. Rachel was just as adamant that they would not, and Edward had a feeling that she would prevail and he would have a grandson named Caleb.

"She's fine," Isabella soothed, knowing how fond Edward was of Rachel.

Isabella came to stand beside Edward and he studied their images in the mirror. "It's hard to believe, isn't it?" he asked quietly.

"What?" she asked, just as softly.

"That all of this started with impertinent and nosy young woman who knocked on my door and threw my entire life into chaos," he said, pulling her close.

Isabella guided his mouth to hers and gave him a deep kiss. When they pulled away, she caressed his face, her dark eyes shining and full. "You're welcome," she said, hearing his unspoken thoughts and knowing, as she always did, what was in his heart.


End file.
